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No. 731. 


Ella and the Peddler. 


See pagt^ 27. 


/ 







THE 


SPAEEOW’S FALL; 


UNDER THE WI-LLOW. 



7 ■ • 

By CAROLINE OHESEBRO. 

-■ -TS* •'sV. 


THREE ILLUSTRATIONS. 








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iUTSKrr 

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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 18G3, by 

CARLTON & PORTER, 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for 
the Southeni District of New York. 




ooisrTEisrTs 


PAGB 


THE SPARROW’S FALL 7 

WALTER MARTIN 77 

SYLVA’S GARDEN 109 

t TIM BERNARD’S ELECTION 131 

NED AND NELLY 143 


LITTLE DICK WEAVER’S GREAT BONFIRE.. 167 


Ilttstrations* 


ElLX A.NO THE PeDDLER 2 

Walter’s Sabbath Evenings 80 

The old Gipsy Woman 121 


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THE SPARROW’S FALL; 

OR, 

UKDEK THE WILLOW. 


Sometimes when I close my eyes, and 
repeat to myself a name, I have a vision. 
Out of the clouds, soft gray and golden, 
like those of last night’s sunset, I wonder 
if you saw it, comes a little figure. What 
do you think it is like ? 

A king on his throne, with a velvet 
robe upon him, and a crown on his head 
that shines like a hundred ^suns ? A lofty 
king, like Saul, who stood head and 
shoulders above all other men ? A lofty 
king with an anxious face, that tells of a 
troubled heart? A mighty man whom 
the people are afraid of because they feel 


8 


THE SPAKROW’S FALL. 


that life and liberty are not safe under 
his rule ? I have no vision of the kind. 
A purple robe is as fine a thing, may be, 
as ever came from dyer’s vat and the 
hands of court costumers, but it’s not the 
thing for me to dream about. And a 
crown — well, may be ! if it were an 
English crown ! for with that in the hand 
one may buy his daily bread. A crown 
on the head, however, it has made many 
a brain and many a heart to ache. 
’Twere idle to dream of such things. 

Then will you imagine that I see com- 
ing forth from that gray and golden 
cloud the black steed of a warrior, a 
prancing war-horse with fire in his eyes, 
and the long black mane streaming finely 
in the wind? A war-horse bearing a 
warrior on his back, who wears his 
terrible armor and wields Excalibur ? 
from whose helmet lifts the lofty plume, 
whose breast is covered with ribbons, and 
stars, and medals, that, tell for him 
wherever he goes that .he is a mighty 


THE SPARROW’S FALL. 


9 


man in battle, that bis name and fame 
are great tbrougbont tbe world ? Is it 
of Garibaldi, or of ISTapoleon III., or of 
other men as wonderful as these? Fre- 
mont, Pope, or Butler ? 

Hot so, indeed, not so. 

Do I see then, rising from that cloud, 
an angel with wide-spread wings, wings 
whose feathers are like the petals of the 
night-blooming Cereus? An angel who 
has the light of heaven in its face ? An 
angel whose flight is like that of the soft 
summer rain when suddenly it drops 
upon you, you can scarcely tell from 
whence, .its coming has so surprised you ? 
That were a blessed sight in truth. But 
— I perceive no angel. Something nearer, 
something dearer, shall I say? It has a 
mortal name. I need not tremble before 
it. It has not the awful majesty that 
might make a poor human being like me 
fall down in fear. 

Then you will conclude if it is not an 
angel I am thinking about, it cannot be of 


10 THE SPARKOW’S FALL. 

a fairy, neither of a water-spirit floating in 
a lily, nor of a mermaid sailing in a shell. 

But of a spirit ? yes ! it must be so. 
And I will tell the story that is hidden 
in the vision. And you may judge me, 
as the pure true soul of all things will, 
some day, unless I tell the truth about 
this girl, this Ella, who lives before me 
when the cloud that is gray and golden 
breaks and fades away. 

Under the willow-tree she sits, under 
the largest and oldest of the willows that 
grow on the bank of the stream that runs 
along the valley at the foot of the high 
hills. Four times as old as Ella is that 
tree, and, if one may judge from the 
appearance, long after she is dead and 
gone it will be alive and growing, year by 
year, more glorious and majestic. Even 
now a hundred girls . like Ella might find 
room to play together under its broad 
shadows, the pleasant shadows it casts all 
around. 

There is a gentle wind astir. It moves 


THE SPARKOW’S FALL. 11 

the graceful branches to and fro, it st^s 
the child’s hair gently as if it really loved 
it, as your mother touches yonrs, and the 
waving shadows fall around her on every 
side, and on the grass and on the water, 
and upon Ella’s face. 

How still it is. But if yon listen you 
will hear the sounds. Crickets chirping 
in the grass, and now and then the shrill 
voice of a grasshopper. The leaves are 
rustling softly ; by that token know that 
the wind is playing with the youngest 
children of the grand old branches. Hark 
to the pleasant ripple of the water ! it is 
a pebble slipping down the bank into the 
stream, or a hopping toad who will take 
a hath — or, hark again ! that is the buzz 
of the passing bee out on a forage : “Hon- 
ey!” is his cry. And the chirp of a lone- 
ly bird who is tired of solitude, I suppose ; 
or else she must be talking in her sleep. 
And yet, after all, how still it is ! These 
sounds do not break th» silence ; they but 
make it more delightful, 


12 THE SPARKOW’S FALL. 

• Let US take a turn about, it is so pleas- • 
ant to be under tbe trees. I hope you 
enjoy it out here. 

This little girl, who sits alone at her 
'work, seems to say that there must be a 
house of some sort not a great way off. 
True enough ! Just there, in the corner 
of the valley close among the hills, is a 
little house, a very little house indeed. 
You might almost think that it grew of 
its own will out of the rocks, as the moss- 
es and lichens do ; or that, at best, it is 
only a very big birdsnest. 

Suppose we call it Birdsnest. Some 
people have named their homes so before 
now. I cannot take the credit of the no- 
tion to myself. But, if we call it a birds- 
nest, is it then an old, forsaken one ? Not 
quite ; but there are only two birds that 
live there. And such a queer family! 
Just as if you should climb to an eagle’s 
eyrie, and find a little sparrow sleeping 
there securely, wth its head, you know, 
under its tiny wings, never disturbed in 


THE SPARROW’S FALL. 13 

its dreams by the owner of the nest, never 
waking np terrified when it sees the king- 
bird coming in. 

Suppose this little girl, this Ella, is the 
sparrow. Where, then, is the eagle, in 
whose nest she has taken shelter ? 

Generally in the right place at the right 
time. Just now he is up in the coal-mine, 
where he spends all his days, for he is an 
overseer of the workmen. His name is 
Solomon, and he is Ella’s uncle; she is 
the only child of his sister, and his sister 
died, it seems to Atm, a grea't, great while 
ago. 

Ella is like her mother ; and her moth- 
er was the one that Solomon loved best 
of all who live and move upon this earth. 
How that she is dead, she is the sweetest 
and best of all his recollections. He re- 
members her when he sits resting from 
his labors, and his heart is at peace. 
When he looks long at the sky, as some- 
times he does in the evening, he thinks 
pf her ; and if ever Ella brings a fiower to 


14 THE SPAEROW’S FALL. 

him, he is sure to fall to thinking about 
Ella’s mother. 

Nothing of her mother does the child 
remember. Since she died the world has 
been a harder world than it was before to 
Solomon. He is troubled now about so 
many things that were no more than so 
many straws in his way once. He has 
not in a long time seen the beauty of the 
world with eyes quite -clear and strong. 
His vision is not what it was when he 
was a younger man. Of course that is 
his own fault, for the earth and life should 
be growing more dear, and beautiful, and 
precious the longer one lives. It should 
be growing always more glorious to the 
sight, and the hopes should always bright- 
en, and the love and faith wax stronger, 
until the heavens open for us to enter in. 
Yes, dear ones, it is so ; this world is a 
blessed world, and God meant we should 
enjoy it. 

For the world is what we make it! 
Who was it that said that? No wiser 


THE SPARROW’S FALL. 


15 


word was ever spoken. Do you know 
what it means? Will you remefhber it? 
Of course you cannot make the trees, the 
grass, the birds and flowers — you cannot 
make the heavens and the earth; none 
less than God can do it; but you can 
make these things, to yourselves, what 
you choose — lovely, fair, and bright, or 
just the other way. 

We have ourselves to blame, and not 
our Father in heaven, if we see more 
clouds than sunshine, more poisonous 
weeds than fragrant flowers,' more evil 
than good, more pain than joy, more 
weeping than smiling ; or if we hear more 
sighing than sweet songs of thankfulness. 
Beauty always for the open eyes, and 
melody for the unstopped ears ! And al- 
ways we shall have occasion to rejoice, 
even through our tears, if we say from 
our hearts “ Thy will be done,” and trust 
our Father who has made us, that he 
knows what to do with us. 

If we seek, we shall find: all that is 


16 THE SPARROW’S FALL. 

worth finding, all that we can manage 
when we find it. 

If we knock, He will open the right 
door for us, though it be not that one we 
expected would open. 

If we ask. He will give us what we 
need. So never fear. Only take what he 
gives thankfully, for it will be well worth 
the taking. 

From his way of life as an overseer 
Solomon had come to be a very silent 
man. His business was to give orders to 
the workmen, to see that they did their 
duty ; and the habit of silence was grow- 
ing upon him more and more. 

He did not try to resist it now as he 
did once, when his sister was alive, and 
always ready with her loving help, mak- 
ing his home pleasant, and by her words 
smoothing the rough road of life in which 
he had to walk. So you may imagine 
that it was rather dull at times there in 
the old Birdsnest. 

StiU, though it was rare that anything 


THE^ SPARROW’S FALL. 17 

like conversation was heard in the house, 
there were some things that the uncle had 
to say to Ella every night when he came 
home. He must know how she had spent 
the day at least. Sometimes this was 
the only question he would ask, but al- 
ways he asked this ; for before his sister 
died, the very day she died, she said to 
him, 

“ Brother Solomon, I give my child to 
you. Do not let her run wild, like the 
children of the miners. Look after the 
little one, brother ; promise me !” 

And Solomon promised her, with his 
great strong hand in the dying woman’s 
little thin, trembling palm, and that was 
a promise he would never break. Ho one 
need fear that he would forget it. And 
that he might carry out his sister’s wish 
he built the little house down under the 
hill, away from the homes of the miners ; 
and an old woman had kept the house for 
him until within a few months. How she 
was dead and buried, and her grave was 


18 THE SPARROW’S FALL. 

under one of the willow-trees on the bank 
of the stream. 

So now Ella and Uncle Solomon lived 
in the nest alone, and they kept the queer 
little place between them neat, and nice, 
and comfortable. 

Every night, as I said, it was Solomon’s 
habit to call the child to him and ques- 
tion her ; and when she sat beside him, 
with her hands crossed on her lap, and 
talked to him with that quiet voice of 
hers, it was almost the same to him as it 
is to a Christian man when he looks at 
the quiet sky after thfe sun has gone down, 
and, forgetting all the heat, and disquiet, 
and discomfort of the day that has ended, 
he says softly in his heart, and with tears 
it may be, 

“O my Father, who hast made thy 
world so beautiful, make me in my heart 
more pure and worthy, that I may see all 
the beauty thou wouldst have me see, and 
be that which is pleasant and beautiful in 
thy sight !” 


THE SPAEROW’S FALL. 19 

So it was all natural, and could not 
have been any other way, as Ella was the 
brightest thing in the world to him, that 
Solomon should love her best, and trust 
her most; and, of course, Ella believed 
her uncle was the wisest Solomon that 
lived, the best uncle in the world. 

When Solomon spoke to Ella his voice 
was kinder than it ever was to any other 
being with whom he had to deal. It had 
a gentle sound, that strong, deep voice, as 
soft and as musical as some of the notes of 
the great organ from which the organists 
bring, when they choose, such awful tones 
like the dread roll of thunder. You’ll hear 
them the next time you hear Old Hundred 
played ; that’s Luther’s hymn, you know. 

A gentle sound that voice had when it 
spoke to her. Without Solomon’s know- 
ing it, it softened; and sometimes the 
thought of Ella, coming across him while 
he was busy at his work, was powerful 
enough to quite change his manner toward 

the men. But he did not know that it 
2 


20 THE SPARROW’S FALL. 

was SO, I dare say, nor think anything about 
it ; but among the workwomen it was well 
understood. 

Ella knew how her uncle trusted her. 
He never in his life asked himself the 
question, Is what she tells me true f He 
never looked down into her eyes while 
she was speaking and wondered if she 
kept back anything from him. 

Sometimes, but not often, Ella went up 
to the mines with her uncle. She had 
walked about the works and talked a lit- 
tle with the children who were old enough 
to work there, and had visited some of the 
women in their houses. But her uncle 
was always close beside her in these visits ; 
he never left her to wander about alone. 
He seemed to think that this was no place 
for his child. 

Of course then the most of Ella’s time 
was spent alone, and in summer out of 
doors. Almost any pleasant day you might 
have found her seated on the bench her un- 
cle had built for her under the willow-tree. 


THE SPARROW’S FALL. 


21 


And what she did there from mornino* 

O 

until night was to weave baskets from the 
little willow twigs. 

This was her regular daily work. How 
it came to be so I shall tell you. It was 
the same with her, precisely the same, 
that it has been and always is with the 
brave true poets, and the painters, and 
the blessed, blessed singers who go sing- 
ing through the earth to make the old 
world happier and better for their songs. 
Singing for the reason that it is a joy to 
them, and so a joy to others. God bless 
them ! how they shall sing hereafter ! 

Those painters or singers, the poets and 
the voices, paint not, sing not because 
others have done it before them, nor be- 
cause somebody has paid a great deal of 
money to have them taught^ — ^it’s another 
kind of duty that makes them give their 
song. It is in them to do it, that you 
must understand ; perhaps it’s in you to 
do it. I know of one who will be glad 
to hear and see what you shall do. 


22 THE SPARKOW’S FALL. 

Just as it happens to those blessed ones 
it happened to Ella. She had the eye 
of an artist, and she had the hands of an 
artist, for the beautiful and happy spirit 
was always working with her fingers. It 
was she who made the little garden lying 
in front of the Birdsnest ; it was she that 
trained the vines so that they grew along 
the cottage wall, and up around the eaves, 
and looked down, one of them did, from 
the topmost hit of lath and stone in the 
great rude chimney. 

And this was the way it happened. 
Come nearer; are you tired? One day 
while she sat in the shade of the willow- 
tree looking upward and watching the 
slender branches as they moved with the 
wind, she leaped up with a sudden im- 
pulse, caught down a branch and broke 
from it some slender twigs. With these 
she sat down again and thoughtfully be- 
gan to break away the leaves, and, having 
done this, to weave the stems, twisting 
and twining them according to her fancy. 


THE SPARROW’S FALL. 23 

That was the beginning of the basket 
weaving. All natural enough, you see. 
But don’t call it accidental. 

You know of course that all this did 
not come to pass in a day. That is not 
the way in which any great thing is ever 
brought about. Be patient, therefore, in 
whatever you would do. The time of 
harvest always comes. 'No matter how 
discouraged you may feel, remember what 
I say. And believe it, not because I say 
it, but because the Jeacher sent from God 
declared that the laborer is worthy of his 
hire, and wages may mean something 
besides money; something that the soul 
who earns it may have in his possession 
ages after all the gold mines in the world 
have been discovered, and dug up and 
coined and circulated among the nations ; 
after the gold has turned into dust even, 
and the people are all gone from the face 
of the earth, and the earth itself is no 
longer, but heaven is in its place ! 

No great work is done in a day, and a 


24 


THE SPARKOW’S FALL. 


long time was our Ella in acquiring the 
beautiful art of making beautiful baskets, 
for she had no teacher ; and she had nev- 
er seen any toys or baskets like those she 
was trying to make. From the hour 
when her uncle discovered by accident 
what it was that she busied herself about 
^day after day, and all day long, she took 
more pride and pleasure in her work than 
she had ever done before. For he praised 
her success and her industry, and now 
and then he would a^ her for one of the 
pretty trifles she had constructed to carry 
with him to some little child up in the 
settlement of the miners. And he had 
told her that by and by he would show 
her work to the peddlers who sometimes 
passed through the valley on their way to 
the hill country beyond, and it might be 
that they would be glad to buy her work 
of her. But he said also at the same time 
that she was never to have any dealings 
with these same persons unless he, her • 
uncle, were by. And Ella promised him. 


THE SPARROW’S FALL. 


But of the promise there really seemed to 
be no need, for when had she ever dis- 
obeyed him ? 

She had never disobeyed him. No 
more fear of herself had Ella, no more 
doubt would she have felt had she been 
asked the question whether it was possible 
for her to disobey, than Peter felt when his 
Lord said, “Before the cock crow thou 
shalt deny me thrice.” 

Well, her time was coming when she 
must be proved. Thus it happened. One 
day at noon while she sat at work there 
came a peddler through the valley ; he was 
on his way to the mines. Across his 
broad shoulders were swung the tin boxes 
in which he carried his wares, and Ella 
saw him as he came. 

Slowly he sauntered along the bank 
of the stream with his cap in his hand, 
and he was evidently looking about 
for a sheltered place where he could sit 
and rest ; for at last when he had come 
to a 'place where the shadows fell the 


26 THE SPAEROW’S FALL. 

thickest he took his pack from his hack, 
and threw himself down on the grass, and 
there he lay with his eyes closed, as if he 
had instantly fallen asleep. 

Ella, from the place where she sat on 
the little knoll just back of him, looked 
down and saw the lad. All this while, 
as he came slowly nearer, she had watched 
him unperceived ; and now she gathered 
up her work, and seemed about to go 
away; but after a moment’s hesitation 
she sat down again, and began to weave, 
as though she would keep watch while the 
poor tired traveler slept. She would see 
that nothing happened to him or his prop- 
erty. That was what she said to herself ; 
very likely she was a little curious to 
wait, and find out what would happen 
next. 

At all events she waited, and his slum- 
ber was a brief one. He seemed to waken 
and to spring up in one moment, so that 
there was no time for her to go away, 
while he was preparing to break off from 


THE SPARROW’S FALL. 


27 


sleep, as she had intended to do. She 
could not move without his seeing her; 
and indeed what he now began to do was 
of itself sufficient to keep her where she 
sat, waiting and watchful. 

In the first place he unlocked one of 
the boxes; and if all the riches of the 
world had been unlocked before the eyes 
of Ella, she could hardly have looked down 
upon them with more wonder. O such a 
show of ribbons, pins and needles, thread 
and thimbles, knives and scissors, kerchiefs 
for the hand and kerchiefs for the neck, of 
every style and color ! such gloves, such 
fans, such beads! such shoes and stock- 
ings 1 such silks and muslins ! and O, such 
pictures for the wall !* 

But though so wonderful a treat to her 
eyes, the goods were like an old story to 
the lad ; his attention was not for a mo- 
ment caught by the chief contents of the 
box, the things that were worth money to 
country folks; a little package in the 

* See Frontispiece. 


28 THE SPAKKOW’S FALL. 

corner was the thing he chiefly cared for ; 
that is, for this moment, for he was very 
hungry, and off that bread and cheese he 
was to make his dinner. 

While he was eating it Ella sat looking 
at the treasure of the open box, and pres- 
ently she made some stir, exactly as you 
might expect, but she knew not that she 
moved. The boy’s ears were much quick- 
er than hers seemed to be, for he heard 
the sound, and looked up and perceived 
her! When she knew that, her first 
thought was of her Uncle Solomon, and 
she understood quite well what her duty 
was, now that the trader had discovered 
her. She should go home without delay, 
her heart told her ; but before she moved 
to do so the lad had said to himself, “Here 
is a customer, like enough.” That was 
his first thought when he fell in with any 
person on his road — man, woman, or child. 

And so he called out with a pleasant 
voice, not a voice she expected to hear ; it 
could not frighten her, it was so friendly : 


THE SPARROW’S FALL. 29 

“ Come and look at my goods, miss. 
Threads, needles, buttons, and thimbles; 
pictures, looking-glasses ; knives and 
forks; everything that can be known or 
mentioned ! Coma and look ; I^don’t ex- 
pect you to buy ! but see if I haven’t got 
a pretty decent stock for the people up 
there in the mines.” 

So speaking, he sat down beside the tin 
boxes, and before Ella could speak he had 
spread out his wares on the grass, and his 
black eyes sparkled with fun, and his face 
had a smile that was charming to see; 
and Ella of course supposed that he was 
taking great pleasure in his trouble to 
show her the goods. He had said he 
didn’t expect her to buy anything ; per- 
haps he had never been to the mines, and 
really wanted to know if his wares would 
be likely to suit the women up there ! 

But what if her uncle should come? 
She should be so frightened could she 
ever explain how all this had really hap- 
pened ? O, but there was no danger I 


30 THE SPARROW’S FALL. 

Solomon never came home at this time 
of day! 

No danger ! Then Ella was willing to 
talk with the trader and examine his 
wares, if she could .only he sure that 
Uncle S(3omon would not know. 

But where now was the harm of look- 
ing? 

SJie stayed, and she quieted her con- 
science ; for she told the lad she wanted 
none of his goods, she should not buy any. 
And he said again no matter about that, 
he only wanted she should look at the 
pretty goods; surely she did not often 
have the chance of looking at such fine 
things, living in that lonely place ! That 
was all very true. Poor Ella could not 
deny it. 

So she came nearer step by step. He 
only wanted her to look. Ah ! he knew 
well enough what would happen. When 
he nodded his head, saying again, 

“ Hever mind 1 I don’t care about sell- 
ing to you^ but you ought to look at the 


THE SPAREOW’S FALL. 31 

things, for you never saw such a lot be- 
fore. I bought them so cheap there must 
have been a terrible loss somewhere ; hut 
that’s not my fault, miss. It’s not my 
misfortune either ! for if a poor peddler is 
lucky enough to get his goods for noth- 
. ing, it follows that he can almost afford 
to give them away. I guess I’ll surprise 
the old women up yonder; they never 
had such bargains afore.” When he said 
all this he felt pretty sure that Ella would 
discover something in the boxes, if it 
wasn’t more than a bunch of beads, that 
she would covet, and most likely buy. 

And step by step, nearer, nearer Ella 
came, until she stood, yes, she ! looking 
down into the mysterious treasure-house 
from which the lad was drawing forth in- 
exhaustible riches. And as he went on 
with this work he seemed only to be ar- 
ranging his goods over again. iN’ot for 
her gratification merely ; she wa# only a 
little girl, who of course did not intend to 
buy of him. 


32 THE SPAKROW’S FALL. 

He spread them out on the grass, the 
boxes, and rolls, and packages, until the 
entire contents were before his eyes. And 
now and then as he went on in this way he 
would pause and look at her, and there 
was a question in his eyes whenever he 
did so that Ella saw, and it made her 
more and more uneasy. It was just as if 
he kept saying, “ Well, miss, what are you 
going to do about all these fine things I 
have been at the trouble to spread out 
here before you 

And Ella would have been glad could 
she have run away; but she could not stir; 
it seemed as if there was some enchant- 
ment that prevented her. 

At length the peddler seemed to think it 
high time that she came to some conclu- 
sion, for he asked outright, 

‘‘Well, what will you buy, miss?” He 
spoke civilly, but Ella was frightened by 
the question. It seemed to her now sud- 
denly as if she had in some mysterious 
way fallen under an obligation to become 


THE SPARKOW’S FALL. 33 

a purchaser. It was a very poor excuse 
to urge, and she was ashamed of it ; still 
out it came through her stammering 
lips, 

“01 told you nothing ; I said I didn’t 
want anything to-day.” 

“ But see here,” said the lad, apparently 
with great surprise, as if he could not be- 
lieve his ears. “ See what lots of things, 
all of them useful too! You can’t do 
without them. Bins, needles, tapes, and 
muslins, needles, thimbles, threads, and 
silks, and pictures, for the wall!” He 
named the pictures last, and opened his 
eyes wide in admiration of those colored 
prints, for he saw that Ella’s heart was 
fixed on one of them. 

“ I know it,” said she. “ I think they 
are beautiful ; but I can’t buy.” Frankly 
and seriously she spoke, and she looked at 
the boy as if nothing hindered her buying 
the whole contents of the box might she 
only have her own way about it. 

“ What’s the reason ? See here. Look 


34 THE SPARKOW’S FALL. 

at that, now. You put it on your wall, 
and see if you ever saw anything so ele- 
gant before.” He held up the picture 
while he spoke, for he knew it was the 
one among them all, the very one, poor 
Ella admired most. 

I must describe it that you may see it 
too. And don’t say in the end that you 
think it strange such a simple thing should 
have cost her so much trouble, for the 
real value of a thing depends on what we 
think about it : upon what it is to any 
one concerned, and not so much upon the 
price put upon it in the market. Perhaps 
you would not feel willing to pay your 
bright silver sixpence for a picture that 
some one else would think worth twenty 
thousand dollars. 

This picture, then, was of a boy and 
girl who were standing side by side : the 
girl on tiptoe looking into a birdsnest, 
and the birdsnest was in the midst of a rose- 
bush, and the rose-bush was full of roses. 
In that nest were three blue eggs, and up 


THE SPARKOW’S FALL. 


35 


above tbe rose-bush was the mother bird, 
with her wings wide spread; she was fly- 
ing home ;* and the little girl was dropping ^ 
the branch of the bush which she had held 
aside that they might have a peep into the 
sacred little “ family circle.’" A smile was 
on the child’s face, a tender smile it was, 
and she seemed to be thinking that it was 
time for them to go now that the mother 
was coming home. 

“ Only see that, now,” said the peddler, 
putting on a look of great delight, dressing 
his face with it just as he would put a 
coat on his back, for he really did not feel 
such great admiration for the picture ; it 
was only a colored bit of paper, worth a 
shilling to him. 

“ See that, now,” said he again. 

His words, or his manner of saying 
them, or the picture itself, tempted poor 
Ella. But she would not have allowed 
that she was tempted, not even to herself. 
Had her conscience asked her at that mo- 
ment what she was about, she would have 
3 


36 THE SPAKKOW’S FALL. 

• 

answered that she only wanted to look at 
the thing a little nearer, that was all. 

^May he that was all^ hut it was quite 
enough. 

In her hands she took the picture, with 
her two admiring eyes she gazed at it, and 
gazed as if she would never put it down 
again. Meantime the hoy began to pack 
away his goods in the tin boxes, and he 
seemed to he thinking that he had made 
a sale of the picture. 

When Ella saw what he was doing, 
that he was actually making ready to de- 
part, her heart gave a leap, her hand trem- 
bled ; once more she looked at the print, 
then she gave it hack to him ; and never, 
never would she forget the rose-bush and 
the roses, the little hoy and girl, the hirds- 
nest and the eggs, and that home-return- 
ing mother. 

When she gave him back the picture 
the lad did not roll it up as he had done 
the rest, did not lay it away with the oth- 
er goods ; he took it, he looked at it, then 


THE SPARROW’S FALL. .37 

0 

he looked at her, and seemed to be coming 
fast to some conclusion of his thoughts. 

“ You ought to buy that,” said he. 
“ It’s just the pretty picture for you to 
have on your wall. You’d have roses, 
you see, in the house all the year round, 
though the snow was piled up ten feet in 
the garden. And you’d always have the 
little eggs and the mother flying home.” 

O how her vision grew while the lad 
spoke these words ! Yes, she saw in the 
midst of the winter’s desolation beautiful 
warm days and golden sunshine, and the 
songs of birds she heard; she smelt the 
fragrant roses, could see how the wind 
did lift the green grass under the little 
rose-tree, and how the dew-drops lay 
upon the flowers, even as she saw these 
things in the pleasant summer time. 

“I would like it,” she said, “but I can’t 
buy it. I haven’t anything to buy with.” 

“You must be dreadful bad oif, then,” 
said the boy shortly, as if he did not be- 
Keve a word she said, but as he looked at 


38 THE SPAREOW’S FALL. 

m 

her some other thought! seemed to 'come 
to him ; strangely, strongly they came. 
He could not resist them. •He had be- 
gun to roll the picture, but now he stopped 
and looked at the box again, as if per- 
plexed. 

Ella did not perceive this change in 
him ; she was thinking of his last words, 
and now replied as if his speech had not 
in the least pleased her. 

“ I’m not so bad off. Hot bad off a bit. 
But I haven’t any money, and I never 
have.” 

How do you get along, then asked 
the boy. 

“ I live with my Uncle Solomon, and 
he takes care of me. I never had any 
money. What should I want it for? 
There’s nothing here to buy, you 
know.” 

“What are you making there?” asked 
the peddler. Two or three times already 
he had been on the point of asking her 
this question; he thought he knew; and 


THE SPARKOW’S FALL. 39 

generally, lie boasted, bis guess was as 
good as any other man’s knowledge. 

“ I am making a basket,” Ella answered. 

“ It is pretty work, that is ; it’s worth 
money to you. Some time when I come 
this way I’ll make a bargain with you. 
Where abouts is your uncle ?” 

‘‘ He is up at the mine,” answered Ella, 
at the same time looking anxiously around, 
as if she feared that he were nearer than 
she said. 

“Well, that’s the port I’m bound for, 
as I told you, and I expect they’ll riddle 
my chests for me in no time. But there’s 
plenty more where these goods came 
from. I’ve sold things to your uncle, I 
guess. Don’t he bring you thread, and 
needles, and pins sometimes when he 
comes home ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“Well now, little girl. I’ll tell you. I’ll 
leave this picture here till I come this 
way again. You go on making your 
baskets, and I’ll know my property is 


40 THE SPARROW’S FALL. 

safe. You wont tear it up, or eat it up, 
I reckon.” 

“ O ! O !” exclaimed Ella, witli a face 
that glowed with pleasure at the thought ; 
but she knew not what to say. Then she 
remembered her uncle, and what he had 
said about her dealings with the peddlers. 
“ I guess you had better not leave it. 'No, 
you’d best take it along,” said she; and 
you would have thought the struggle was 
all over from her determined way of say- 
ing this. But the peddler was not will- 
ing to go on his way until he had come 
to terms with the child ; that is, till he 
had managed all this business to his own 
satisfaction. 

“ I aint a bit afraid to trust you, miss,” 
said he frankly. 

“Something might happen, though,” 
answered Ella weightily, as though some 
very sacred trust were about to be com- 
mitted to her — a trust from which she 
shrunk. 

“ I aint afraid of su(^ a nice little girl 


THE SPARROW’S FALL. 41 

as you ! and you ought o’ good rights to 
have it to keep always. I’ll trust you 
anyhow.” 

“ But — ^you might have a chance to sell 
to somebody else. And — and — I don’t 
think Uncle Solomon would like it.” 

ISiever mind, you try him. What can 
he care? And if anything happens that 
you can’t help, and the picture gets hurt 
any way, I wont trouble you ; we’ll share 
the damage ; we’ll be even. I aint 
obliged to leave it, you see, but I want 
to leave it. Hobody I know of would 
take such good care of the birdsnest, and 
I’ll be rid of the bother of it. I was al- 
ways thinking them eggs would get broke 
before the old bird got home.” 

While he was saying this he was lock- 
ing up the tin chests ; and when he had 
finished speaking he swung them over his 
shoulders and rose up. 

“ I^ow I’m going,” said he. “ Shall I 
tell your uncle ?” ^ 

O no — no, sir, I guess not. I guess 


42 THE SPARKOW’S FALL. 

you’d better take it along with you. 
Hadn’t you?” 

•“Hot a bit of it. Wish me a good 
journey ! Wish me good luck ; it would 
be worth while to be wished by you.” 

“ Good luck to you I” said Ella, but she 
said it with a .very serious smile ; for 
though she held the picture close in her 
hands, and was intending to keep it, still 
it was a trouble to her at that mo- 
ment ; and do you suppose that the time 
could come when it would cease to be a 
trouble to her ? 

When she wished him good luck the 
peddler turned away and walked off brisk- 
ly a few paces; then he turned back, 
looked gayly at Ella, and said, 

“Your wish will do me ever so much 
good. It makes me feel all right,” 

Then he went on a few steps further ; 
but he stopped again, and looked back 
once more. 

“ W ait,” said he to Ella. “ Come here, 
miss ; do you want your fortune told ?” 


THE SPARKOW’S FALL. 


43 


“What is that?” asked Ella, and she 
went toward him, even as he hade. 

“Hold out your hand and I’ll tell 
you,” said he. 

Why did Ella lift her head and look 
up and down the valley before ‘she gave 
her hand to have her fortune told ? Ah ! 
to see whether any eye beheld her — Uncle 
Solomon, or any one who would report 
this scene to him. 

“How look at me straight in the face, 
young miss,” said the gay lad laughing, 
full of fun. “ All right ! you have the 
right kind of an eye. You may keep 
that picture till I come. I won’t forget 
the place. I never forget anything. 
Keep to work at the baskets, mind. I’ll 
want the prettiest ones.” - 

So he went off, bowing and smiling, 
making a great flourish with his hand; 
and Ella smiled too, and smiling went 
back home. 

And she was smiling still, if you can 
believe it, when she pinned the picture 


u 


THE SPAEKOW’S FALL. 


on the wall; and smiling when her ejes 
turned toward it; and smiling when she 
was not looking, because she knew that 
it was there. 

When her. uncle came home that night 
it was Idter than usual; it was, in fact, 
quite dark. 

There was but one thing in Ella’s 
thoughts before he came, and when he . 
came, and after. She could only think 
about the picture. But since he came 
a change had taken place in her think- 
ing. 

What had happened to the pretty paint- 
ed nest, and the little blue eggs, the rose- 
bush, the mother bird, the summer sky? ~ 
And what had happened to our Ella that 
she should this happy night feel so anx- 
ious and agitated ? that she should wish so 
many times she had never seen the ped- 
dler as he passed through the valley ? tha t 
she should repent so bitterly the hanging 
of that picture on the wall ? You see it 
was a slight matter, and yet how very 


THE SPARROW’S PALL. 


45 


great ! So strange is the relation between 
what we call great and little, making 
them sometimes nearly one, actually often 
merely one. 

She was in no doubt now as to whether 
her uncle would approve of what she had 
done. When the whole thing Was settled 
past recovery she had time to think it over, 
time to fear, and time to hesitate. 

Uncle Solomon had come home with 
his mind full of the business that was go- 
ing on in the hills. He was troubled more 
than he was usually, so his face seemed 
to say. He asked the usual questions, 
how the day had gone with Ella, if she 
had a pleasant time under the trees with 
her weaving, and he praised the broth she 
had made. But his words were very few ; 
and after the meal was ended, while Ella 
cleared the table and did her evening 
work, he took out his account book, and 
seemed to forget her and everything ex- 
cept business. 

So Ella went to bed, and left the picture 


46 THE SPAKROW’S FALL. 

hanging on the wall; not a word as yet 
had been said about it. 

Once alone in her chamber, safe in the 
silent darkness, you think her mind be- 
came easy^and that she slept a peaceful 
slumber. Do you really think so badly 
of Ella as to believe this would be possi- 
ble ? 

Little she slept that night. It was later 
than usual when her uncle went to bed. 
Ella listened for him to come, for his bed- 
chamber was next hers. She listened, 
thinking that perhaps he would stop at 
her door and look in ; sometimes he did 
so. If he had seen the picture he certain- 
ly would do so. He would be curious to 
know about it, where it came from, and 
to whom it belonged. 

He never stopped. She heard him pass- 
ing by ; she heard him close the door of 
his own chamber, and then she felt safe ; 
she was alone again. Ko danger now. 
But did sleep come to her and soothe her ? 
Did her trouble disappear ? 


THE SPAEROW’S FALL. 


47 


No ; troubled as she never was before, 
and as I hope no reader of this story v%s 
ever, troubled, she thought of what she 
had done, and wondered if the hour would 
ever strike when this dread and fear and 
doubt she felt would pass away and be 
lost in some happy dream. 

She must ease her mind by making 
some good resolution, if she would sleep 
at all. More than half the burden that 
lay upon her heart like a great stone, 
more than half this burden seemed to roll 
away w^hen she came to this determina- 
tion : the picture should remain upon the 
wall, her uncle would be sure to see it 
some day sooner or later, and when he 
saw it he would question her, then she 
would tell him all. But not till then ; he 
must speak first about it, that she could 
never do ! 

When she fell asleep folding this resolu- 
tion to her heart, it was the last thing Ella 
feared that she should change her mind 
when the morning came. The picture 


48 THE SPAKROW’S FALL. 

should remain upon the wall ! Yes, that 
sh^ said to herself until the last moment. 

But when that last moment in the morn- 
ing came, which was the moment just be- 
fore her uncle entered the room, itp)roved 
to be a moment long enough for her to 
change her mind in. He was coming to 
•help her about the breakfast, as he had 
done every morning since the old woman’s 
death; when Ella heard his step there 
was a great struggle in her mind. 

Last night she had brought herself to 
see that it was right, and the only right 
thing she could do, to let her uncle know 
about the picture, and she felt happy, as 
I told you, when she had made that reso- 
lution ; but now the fear that he might not 
be in the right mood to hear patiently of 
what she had done, and that if her dis- 
obedience greatly offended him the pic- 
ture was forever lost to her, this fear came 
in, and others followed close behind it.' 

She would wait; she would tell him 
some time ! O never did her swift feet 


THE SPAKEOW’S FALL. 49 

move so swiftly, as if they would fly, as 
now they moved. ISTever did her heart 
beat and throb, never did her face flush 
as now when the impulse of concealment 
urged her on ! 

The picture must come down from the 
wall. It must be laid away out of sight. 
By that she meant it must be hid. So in 
trembling haste she caught it 'from the 
wall. In such haste, with such eagerness, 
alas ! that she tore the precious print. 
There was no time to examine the mis- 
chief done. She only saw that mischief 
was done, and only knew that in another 
moment her uncle would be in the room. 
When he did come, and looked at Ella, 
how should he imagine what the busy 
feet and hands had just been about ? He 
could not think that anything evil had 
come into the temple of that dear young 
life to profane it ! 

It was just as sometimes happens out of 
doors. So still and bright, and then — 
what can be the matter ? The trees shake. 


50 


THE SPAEKOW’S FALL. 


tlie birds scream with terror, the clouds 
gather, the earth seems changed, such sud- 
den shadows fall upon it, such trembling, 
such expectations ; then there is a heavy 
oalm. You have seen it all a hundred 
times, and you felt sure that a storm was 
raging somewhere; you feared it might 
break over you. So was it with Ella. 

“I must not!” “I will!” What a 
clashing these thoughts made ! The thing 
she would not, she did. Then there was 
a sudden lull, but the quiet was not calm. 
It could not make her less unhappy, 
though she ceased to struggle. 

Uncle Solomon was, as usual, in a great 
hurry this morning. Yet Ella thought, 
as she sat with downcast eyes making 
some show of eating, would the breakfast 
never end? Usually she did not sit so 
silent as they shared this early meal, she 
liad something to say to her uncle ; some- 
times, indeed, she spoke such words as he 
did not forget again all day; words he 
would even repeat to some good mother 


THE SPAEROW’S FALL. 


61 


up in the hills where the mines were. 
And when Solomon did this, he always 
called Ella “ My little girl.” Many a 
time did her words go softly with him, or 
her kiss, or her smile, or a tone of her 
voice, for the heart does not easily forget 
these things; and many are the men, 
many are the women, who have been sus- 
tained and cheered through long hours of 
hard labor by something slight as a \yord, 
or smile, or kiss. A smile or a kiss is so 
precious, so precious beyond all things to 
the heart that loves you. O, child, be sure 
that a dear eye never looks to you for a* 
soft and kindly glance, and you turn away 
without giving it. !Never let a human 
ear listen for a kind, good word from you, 
and listen and wait in vain. Just as the 
sun gives light to all and everything that 
God has made, and has a pleasant voice 
for the ear that can hear it aright, so 
should it be with you. From him that 
asketh of thee, turn not thou away. 

But think how very poor Ella must 
4 


52 THE SPARROW’S FALL. 

have become all at once, when she had 
not a cheery look, or a smile, or a word 
for Uncle Solomon ! 

When he had made an end of his break- 
fast, and moved away from the table, his 
eyes fell upon Ella. What was the mat- 
ter with the child? That was the ques- 
.tion his heart asked at once, and his lips 
asked it the next moment. 

“ What ails you, Ella ?” 

• Instead of replying as she always did, 
when anything was the matter, by letting 
him know the truth at once, Ella said, 
looking away from his kind eyes very 
quickly, 

“Nothing, uncle.” 

“ You aint thinking of being lonesome, 
Ella, are you?” he asked kindly, rising 
from his chair and putting on his coat ; 
“for if you are — ” 

Ella did not wait for him to finish what 
he had begun to say. More than any 
other thing she wanted this, to be left 
alone. 


THE SPARKOW’S FALL. 


53 


“ O no, uncle !” she said, speaking very 
fast and with a great deal of agitation. 
But he was putting on his coat, and 
seemed not to notice that she spoke as 
she rarely spoke to him. And he really 
did not notice. That made her a little 
easier ; but not much, I am glad to write. 

“I was going to say,” he continued, 
“ that you might go up to the mines with 
me to-day if that would suit you, Ella.” 

“ I’d rather not, if you please, uncle ; 
not to-day,” she answered, looking at him 
now quite boldly, for she had forgotten 
about the picture. She knew that he did 
not like to have her often among the min- 
ing people, and his kindness in giving the 
invitation only made her more eager in 
her endeavor to convince him that all was 
right with her at home. 

He did not urge the matter, but said 
kindly, 

“Any day you like, then. What will 
you do all day, though ? I’m afraid you 
get lonesome down here, child.” 


54 


THE SPARROW’S FALL. 


O, I am working, you know, uncle, 
at my baskets ; and I am never lonesome. 
I sit down there under the willow-tree on 
the round bench, and the birds are good 
company.” 

The uncle lingered for a little longer 
talk, and what he said was this — think 
how she must have heard it : 

“ You are a good girl, Ella, to work so 
steady. I expect you will do fine things 
with your weaving yet. You ought to 
be paid for it. If I should see a trader 
coming along one of these days I’ll speak 
about your baskets. We could make a 
bargain with him. I shouldn’t wonder. 
But you must let me do the business for 
you when it comes to that, for they are a 
good-for-nothing set on the whole, and I 
wont have them cheating you. Be sure 
you leave the business for me to manage, 
Ella.” 

How she might tell him! He was 
speaking, he was looking so kindly, sure- 
ly there was nothing to fear. But — what 


THE SPARROW’S FALL. 65 

was it ? what could it have been that hin- 
dered her ? For instead of owning to him 
what it was that she had done already in 
the trading line, she only said, 

“ Yes, uncle.” 

And was not that as much as to say, 
‘‘I am not deceiving you. It shall all 
be as you wish.” 

Certainly he heard her saying more 
than “ Yes ;” he heard her saying that he 
need not fear for her ; that she only knew 
and desired to do as he •‘would have her. 
And now he came to her and kissed her, 
and said, . 

“ Good-by, then, my dear. I must 
leave you if you wont go along.” 

So he bustled out of the house and hur-. 
ried away, and began to think about busi- 
ness again. But often as he went he 
seemed to see his Ella seated in the pleas- 
ant shade of the willows, keeping com- 
pany with the birds, the warm sunshine 
all around her, working at her baskets. 
Sweet picture, and precious was it to him ! 


56 THE SPARROW’S FALL. 

Thinking of it, good and kindly thoughts 
stole softly into his heart, and he went up 
to the mines with the look upon his face 
that you, have seen on good men’s faces 
when they pray. When the miners saw 
him they said among themselves, “We 
shall have an easy time of it to-day.” 
And so it happened with them ; but for all 
that they accomplished a great deal more 
than they had done many another day, 
when driven to the top of their speed. 
You understand how that could be; it is 
so much easier to work when the day is 
bright, and heaven is all fair. Do you 
suppose I mean the sky that is above us ? 
Not alone. I’m thinking of the heaven 
that is nearer, around us and within us. 
If that is clear and bright, then labor is 
ajoy. 

But when Uncle Solomon had gone 
from the house, ah what a strange day 
was that in store for little Ella ! 

At first she was full of self-reproach 
and of sorrow, thinking of what she had 


THE SPARROW’S FALL. 


57 


done. But by and by another voice than 
that accusing voice began to speak — to 
make excuses for her; to say that she 
was not all to blame; that Uncle Sol- 
omon was so severe no wonder that she 
feared to tell him what she had done! 
It was more a wonder, vastly, that she 
had ever dared to feel toward him as she 
had ; so grateful and so loving ! For 
could she not remember times when his 
conduct had been very harsh and cruel % 
And why should she not keep the picture, 
if she liked it ? why not tell him all her 
wants and all her doings % Poor mother- 
less child, left alone day after day with 
not a soul to speak with, she had a right 
to amuse herself, and to occupy herself 
just as she chose ! 

O what was this new and strange voice 
that charmed her so with such a sinful 
charm % this voice that stirred within her 
such strange, dreadful thoughts % 

• Now she would look at the picture 
again. She would hang it on the wall ; 


58 


THE SPARKOW’S FALL. 


it would be nigbt before her uncle came 
again. But — why must she go first, 
though she was alone, alone there in that 
valley ; why must she first go cautiously 
and look through the window, and then 
move boldly through the door, and then 
run into the garden, as if to surprise any- 
body that might be lurking there? so 
fearful that she should be herself sur- 
prised? Who did she mean by “any- 
body ?” There was no one on the earth 
she feared to think of now but Uncle 
Solomon. Think of it ! By one act, so 
small a doing, she had come to fear him 
whom till now she had only loved ! 

And when she saw that there was no 
one near, indeed no one, she went back 
again into the house, brought out the 
picture, looked at it — O do you think it 
was with great delight ? 

What had happened to the picture ? 
Was it really the same? Why yes, to be 
sure ; did she not see ? there was the tall 
rose-bush, with its clusters of red roses, 


THE«SPAKEOW’S FALL. 


59 


but where was the fragrance of those 
roses now? There was the mother-bird, 
flying home to her nest — but was Ella 
suddenly turned deaf ? for she could not 
hear the song. And there was the birds- 
nest an.d the little eggs, the three. And 
the boy and the girl stood together, the 
little girl on tiptoe, just the same. But 
was it the same, all this, that it was yes- 
terday ? 

No; there was the ugly rent made 
when she pulled the picture from the 
wall so hastily this morning. Perhaps 
that could be mended. "W^hat was the 
matter besides, though, for the birdsnest 
did not look so beautiful to her eyes as it 
did yesterday ? 

She pinned the picture to the wall, 
however. It would be night before Uncle 
Solomon returned, but she did not look 
as though she anticipated a great deal of 
joy during the long hours of the day. 

The sun shone out and made a glorious 
morning, but it did not invite her to the 


60 


THE SPAKEOW’S P^LL. 


shady seat under the willow-tree ; or, if it 
did invite her, she could not be persuaded 
to accept the invitation. 

Still she would not waste the time in 
idleness. So Ella sat down in the house 
and worked at her basket- weaving, though, 
strange to say, with her back turned on 
the picture. Tired of looking at it do 
you suppose ? or had she forgotten about 
it ? which do you think most likely ? 
Never did her hands fly faster in the 
weaving than they did just now. The 
look of trouble that was upon her face 
when she first brought out the picture 
gradually disappeared, but ’twas not a 
happy look that followed it. Where was 
the lovely Ella of whom Solomon was so ^ 
proud ? Not here in this kitchen working 
at basket-weaving. 

What she thought about now was 
really not the picture, but the work that 
she was doing, and of the peddler who 
was coming some day, and of the bargain 
Uncle Solomon would make then for 


THE SPARKOW’S FALL. 


61 


her work, and with a sigh she said to 
herself, 

“He will see, then, that I am of some 
use. I shall he able to do a good deal. 
And I will never stop working as long 
as I live, never.” 

You see what she was thinking of; she 
was going to make some amends for what 
she had done by her good works ! as if 
any good work, as if anything except 
repentance, and confession, and the mercy 
of Jesus, would give her peace of mind 
and heart again. 

By and by in the afternoon there came 
down from the mines a woman, bringing 
her little girl with her, to visit Ella. 
Uncle Solomon had sent them. He was 
thinking of his child when he saw this 
little one, and something told him that 
it would be a long and weary day to her. 
So he had bidden the woman go down to 
the cottage for a visit. 

Of the peddler, of her uncle, was Ella 
thinking when she heard the footsteps* 


62 


THE SPAEKOW’S FALL. 


She threw down her work, started from 
her chair, looked up at the picture, ran 
across the room to where it hung; hut 
jufet then, through the open door, she saw 
the faces of the woman and the child, and 
she could well afford to smile very 
brightly on them, she felt so much re- 
lieved. 

“ O is it you she said. “ Come in,” 
for she recollected the woman’s face ; then 
she stooped and kissed the little one, and 
took her hand to lead her into the house. 

“ It was your uncle that sent us,” said 
the woman, taking the chair Ella brought 
for her. “ And I was mighty glad to 
come.” 

“I’m glad to see you too,” answered 
Ella. And in truth she was very glad. 

“ You’re at your basket work yet, I see,” 
said the woman, looking toward the cor- 
ner where Ella’s work was lying. “ Your 
uncle is wonderful proud of it. It isn't 
strange. You found it all out of yourself 


THE SPARROW’S FALL. 63 

Yes,” said Ella, well pleased with this 
praise, “ I found it all out of myself.” 
Her uncle was proud of anything that she 
could do. She could have cried to hear 
that, hut she only smiled. 

“ I’ve got one of the little baskets up at 
my house, one of the first, I guess, you 
made. He brought it to my little girl, 
But he says that you do a wonderful sight 
better now.” 

“I’ll show you,” said Ella, and her 
heart warmed at this praise. She began 
to forget her trouble. All in a moment 
she said to herself, while she went to 
bring some specimens of her work, 
“ There’s no great need of telling uncle 
about the picture yet. Of course he will 
know all about it some day. Perhaps I 
will buy it of the peddler first. It will 
be all right any way. If he never hears 
of it it will not hurt him.” 

So the day would prove to Ella after 
all what she might call a happy day. A 
happy day I when niore than once she 


64 THE SPAEEOW’S FALL. 

was obliged to say to herself, in order to 
be rid of the thoughts which would begin 
to show themselves, 

‘‘All in good time. He shall surely 
know about it. But I will tell him when 
I choose, and not a minute sooner.” For 
all she could not satisfy herself with say- 
ing, “It will not hurt him if he never 
hears of it.” Something said to her that 
it would terribly hurt her if she never con- 
fessed what she had done. 

“When I choose; not a moment be- 
fore,” she said this to herself once, out 
of the dozen times she said it, when 
she saw her little visitor standing still 
with eyes fixed on the birdsnest in won- 
der — said it while she caught up the child 
and held her close to her treasure, and 
bade her “ look ” at the children, and the 
nest, and the roses, and the eggs, and the 
bird. 

But all she wanted was that baby should 
see and be delighted. That wasn’t enough 
for baby, however. Before EUa was 


THE SPARROW’S FALL. 65 

aware and could prevent it ont went the 
two hands of the child, and down came 
the picture, and there it hung, torn and 
crumpled, in the spoiler’s grasp. 

!N^ot a word said Ella, but putting down 
the child she took away the picture. That 
was not done easily — not done except by 
leaving a corner of the print in the baby’s 
hands. And even that did not satisfy the 
child ; she must scream out her wrath and 
disappointment at the unexpected loss. 
“Let her cry,” thought Ella angrily, as 
she turned from the child and from the 
mother, who was full of sorrow for what 
had happened, and of scolding too that 
fell down very harshly on the little pate 
whose eyes were so full of its own tears it 
could not see the trouble of others. 

^Ella sat down without speaking one 
word ; then she spread the picture on the 
table and endeavored to smooth it into 
shape. But in vain ; torn, tumbled, and 
spoiled it lay before her. 

Too proud to cry and too angry to speak, 


66 THE SPARROW’S FALL. 

she arose at last and laid the print on the 
table in her room, then she came back 
and began to work again at her baskets, 
and still said not a word to the woman or 
her child. So that at the last, giving 
up her eiforts to make peace, the woman 
took the baby in her arms, and said to 
Ella, 

“Well, miss, I’m dreadful sorry at 
what’s happened. But you’re harder than 
the common run of people, seems to me, 
not to say you’ll overlook it. Perhaps 
you’ve never done a thing yourself you’d 
like to have forgiven and forgotten. So I 
can’t expect that you would see I couldn’t 
help it.” 

♦“You can’t help it!” exclaimed Ella, 
suddenly hiding her face, as if shamed by 
the woman’s word. “But I wouldn’t 
have had it torn for the world.” 

“Ho more would I,” said the woman. 
“ I’m sorry I come ; but it was your un- 
cle that sent us, for, says he, maybe my 
girl is kind o’ lonesome, says he.” 


THE SPARROW’S FALL. 


67 


.The mention of her uncle’s name start- 
led Ella. She looked up at the woman. 
It was indeed time she should think of 
making peace. 

Don’t say anything about it,” she 
cried. “ Don’t, to any one ! I don’t care 
about the picture, not a bit.” 

“ I’d be ’shamed to, certin, if ’twas agin 
your wish,” replied the woman ; it’s 
nothing to boast of what’s happened. 
But she never see a picture afore — nev- 
er see anything like that, poor dear! 
We don’t have such things up to our 
house.” 

“Here,” exclaimed Ella in a sort of 
desperation, when the woman had thus 
spoken, “take one of these baskets ! You 
can keep it for yourself ; it will do nicely 
to put your work in.” She insisted upon 
it when the woman seemed likely to re- 
fuse the gift. “ Keep it,” she said, “ to re- 
member me by.” 

“I’ll keep it safe for that, then,” said 

the woman ; “ thank you kindly, Ella.” 

5 


68 THE SPARROW’S FALL. 

Come down again some time,” said 
Ella when they were going away. 

“ But I’ll leave the chick to home if I 
do,” answered the woman, and she went 
off smiling with her basket on her arm 
and her baby on her bosom. Even then 
Ella was not satisfied, but must call after 
her, 

“ Don’t say anything about the picture, 
be surej now.” 

“E’ot I,” was the answer, and so the 
visit ended. 

After this day many other days went 
by, and somehow it seemed that Uncle 
Solomon had more to say to his little 
girl than he had ever found to say before. 
In the morning before he went from 
home, in the evening when he came 
again, he had pleasant words to speak 
and pleasant things to talk about with 
her. He had begun to fear that his little 
girl was lonely, and he was trying what 
he could do to make life easier and hap- 
pier to her. But all his kindness only 


THE SPAREOW’S FALL. 


made her heart the sadder, filled her 
mind with fears, and her days with 
trouble. 

It was no comfort when he would talk 
about the peddler, who would come soon, 
he thought, with whom he intended • to 
make some arrangements for selling her 
baskets : no comfort, for that revived her 
fear that the boy would return in some 
evil hour when her uncle was at home 
and inquire about the picture. 

She had actually come to fear her 
uncle, because she was deceiving him, and 
knew so well how much he loved her all 
this while. To deceive the one who 
loves us is enough to make us fear him ; 
we fear him most when we know that he 
is loving us the best. And this fear has 
torments. When we get to love perfectly 
we cast away the fear, and dare to say to 
God and to our brother, ‘‘Forgive me, 
for I am a rniserable sinner.” 

Well, one Sunday it happened that, 
with all this trouble and sorrow, Ella was 


70 


THE SPAKROW’S FALL. 


lying on her bed sick, and Uncle Solo- 
mon was nursing her. He was gentler 
than a woman, sitting by her bed, or 
walking about the house, doing all things 
that would make her comfortable; and 
she was lying there,, thinking of the past, 
days, and of the blight that had fallen 
upon them all. She was lying with her 
eyes closed, and Uncle Solomon thought 
she was asleep ; that was the reason why 
he got up so quietly and went into the 
outer room, because he feared 4hat some 
one might come in and disturb the child, 
for it happened quite often on a Sunday 
that one of the neighbors from the hills 
would come to visit Solomon, knowing 
that was the only day of the week when 
he would be found at home. 

She was thinking, while she lay there 
with her eyes closed, of the past evil days. 
Of how she had tried to vrork, and had 
found no pleasure in it, and how weary 
she had been of all her walks and visits. 
Of the long, long days, and the still 


THE SPARROW’S FALL. 


71 


longer nights. And now while her eyes 
were shut some tears struggled from her 
eyelids, so wretched, so miserable was she. 
This was a sorrow that could not be 
driven away by any thought or prayer. 
For Ella had even prayed that she might 
he delivered from her trouble ; she owed 
it all to God, for she knew that she had 
wronged him. But then there was an- 
other daily in her sight whom she had 
also wronged, to whom she had not 
owned it. There was something besides 
praying to be done then, just one thing, 
one only, and how could she ever do it ! 

While she lay wondering and troubled 
in her heart Ella heard her uncle speak- 
ing, then there was a sound of a step in 
the next room. Presently the noise of 
some one dropping what might be a 
heavy burden to the floor. 

At that sound Ella started up in the 
bed ; the paleness was gone from her face ; 
she was seized with a sudden spirit that 
was not strength, but it made her forget 


Y2 THE SPARROW’S FALL. 

her weakness, with her head leaning on 
her hand. Supporting herself so in the 
bed, she listened as if “for her life.” 

“ Open the chest, man, let me see what 
you have. It isn’t my way to make a 
bargain on a Sunday. You come to the 
mines to-morrow and I’ll settle with you. 
My little girl is sick ; perhaps you have 
got something in your box that would be 
pleasant for her to look at. Have you 
got any essences in those pretty little 
bottles ?” 

Could she believe her ears! It was 
Uncle Solomon who spoke! 

This was the man she had accused of 
harshness and of sternness ; this was the 
man whom she had learned to fear; this 
was the man to whom she dared not tell 
her secret disobedience. 

Could she sit there silent, thinking of 
such things ? Ho, no ! How, if ever, she 
must go ; she must speak to Uncle Solo- 
mon ! She must tell him of this grief and 
this sin that had destroyed her peace. 


THE SPARROW’S FALL. 


73 


She must tell him of her doing; must 
show him and the peddler the picture 
whose beauty was twice gone, the pic- 
ture which she and the child had marred 
and tom, and which, though it were still 
whole and perfect, could never, never 
more have any beauty to her eyes. 

She had not thought that perhaps it 
might not be the owner of the picture 
with whom her uncle was now bargain- 
ing. It did not enter her head that this 
peddler might be another than the boy 
who had tempted her. It was not till she 
had risen from her bed, and crossed the 
little chamber, and stood in the doorway, 
and looked out into the room where the 
stranger and Uncle Solomon were, that 
she perceived the time for her confession 
had not yet arrived. It had not come 
unless she chose to say to*that moment, 
‘‘Thou art mine! Here I throw off my 
burden 

Did she say it, do you think ? 

The man who had brought the wares 


74 


THE SPARKOW’S FALL. 


sat leaning forward with his head bent 
down ; he was unlocking his boxes ; he did 
not, therefore, see her. Uncle Solomon 
also perceived her not, for he sat with his 
face turned from her toward the stranger, 
and he was saying again, 

“Will you find anything for my little 
girl, do you think, among your goods 

They had not heard her come ; they 
did not feel her heart beat — did not hear 
her breathe. She might go back; she 
might lie down again upon her bed, and 
close her eyes and seem to slumber till 
her uncle came and laid his gift in her 
hand. She looks back into her chamber, 
to her bed ; she turns away from the door 
— turns with a noiseless step — crosses the^ 
little room, stands beside her bed. There 
is no one to hinder her. Her uncle does 
not call. 

But what is this ? O joy ! from beneath 
the straw bed^ where it was hidden away 
from sight, she brings the ruined picture. 
Faster beats her heart, every limb trem- 


THE SPAEKOW’S FALL. 


75 


bles, tears are streaming down her face, 
and now she runs, she flies, it seems in her 
haste, and there, there ! God be thanked ! 
down on her knees by her uncle’s side, 
with her face hid against his arm, she lifts, 
though her hand shakes so violently, lifts 
like a banner of triumph the picture, 
the sign of her overthrow and of her 
VICTORY ! 

And now there is a choked and confused 
sound of words that would seem to have 
no meaning, so broken and indistinct are 
they ; but they have a mighty meaning, 
for Ella is confessing this thing that she 
has done, and Uncle Solomon with a 
grave face is listening, and tears are in his 
eyes, and his countenance looks solemnly 
on Ella ; but fast in his strong grasp he 
holds the little- hands that lift up the ban- 
ner of her victory before him. And he 
draws her closer to his bosom, folds her 
in his arms, and — and the cloud that is 
gray and golden hides them from my sight, 
and I have no more than you, only their 


76 


THE SPARROW’S FALL. 


memory, only tlie glad recollection that 
God saw this sparrow fall and cared for it. 

But then I ought to tell you that for 
many a happy year a young weaver lived 
in the> little cottage of the pleasant valley, 
and that she made more baskets, and more 
beautiful fancywork and toys from those 
noble old willow-trees ’whose branches 
fringe the stream that runs between the 
hills, more than you and I perhaps have 
ever seen. And it was her pious industry 
that gave bread to old IJncle Solomon in 
his later years, when trouble fell upon 
him ; and it was her love, and her sun- 
bright truthfulness that kept pure and 
sweet the fountain of love in the old man’s 
heart, and in many another heart besides, 
and that made her own life blessed. 


WALTER MARTIN; 

OR, 

WHAT A FKIEHD IS WOKTH. 


Violet so fair and sweet, so simple and 
so precious, where shall one hope to find 
you on this bleak and stormy day ? . 

If you are in earnest, and love the thing 
a violet means, come with me, and I will 
show you how such a bloom can flourish 
where you least expect to find it. Come 
under this rocky clifif, to the top of which 
the waves reach when the storms are wild. 
It is not always a safe path. Along this 
narrow way footprints have been made 
and washed out again and again ; the path 
is now as hard as the rock itself, and see 
how the white sand glistens I 


78 


WALTER MARTIN. 


Let US take the short cut that leads to 
Peter Hendrick’s cabin. Just beyond it 
is the little cot where Widow Martin lives 
with her grandson Walter. 

This widow is a very aged woman, and 
her wonderful stout-heartedness and cour- 
age had but seldom failed her in seventy 
long years. Since the day when her 
brave son was drowned before her very 
eyes as he came in from three days’ fish- 
ing with a laden boat, the stout heart’s 
courage has laid hold of heaven, and 
drawn from thence the strength that sus- 
tains her on the earth. 

Little Walter had already lost his moth- 
er, and from the hour of his father’s death 
his grandmother had him solely in her 
charge. Sometimes a neighbor who was 
young when the first Walter Martin was 
a lad, predicted the uew “ coming man ” 
would fall far short of his father’s noble 
style, for the old woman, said they, would 
spoil him, and like enough make a girl of 
him before she’d done. 


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No 731 


Walter’s' Sabbath Evenings. 


kU 



WALTER MARTIN. 


81 


But if you had looked at young Wal- 
ter’s hands, or watched him on the hard 
working days, or even on what he would 
have called his lazy days, you would not 
have thought there was any need of fear 
lest he would grow up in idleness. 

Yet there was a difference between him 
and other lads in the cabins on the coast. 
On Sundays he was never seen on the 
shore, or in his shed, or in his boat at 
work. It was a day of rest in Widow 
Martin’s cabin. Then little Walter was 
dressed in his best, and sat with clean 
hands and face, and read to his grand- 
mother out of the big Bible she brought 
with her to the sea-coast when she came 
here from her old home. 

The visitors they had on Sunday were 
not such as would disturb the quiet of the 
house. Sometimes Bose Hendrick came 
and sat on the door-step, and held the 
big gray cat, and listened, while Walter 
read from the big Bible ; it was given to 
old Widow Martin when she was a bride; 


82 


WALTER JffARTIN. 


sometimes Rose would sing some sacred 
song her mother taught her; and some- 
times Rufu^ Prindle, strolling bj, would 
exchange a friendly salutation ; and some- 
times, if he was invited, would join the 
little group, and talk in a subdued way 
that made Walter look at him with more 
and more of love and admiration — to 
think that one so strong could be so 
gentle. 

Pleasant it was for these young people 
to listen, as they did, to the flutter and 
chatter of the birds, and to watch their 
flight as they flashed out from their nests, 
of which there were at least a thousand 
in the great wall of rock next which the 
Martin cabin stood. 

The cabin occupied a little higher 
ground than any on the coast. Consider 
what a glorious privilege it was, always 
to have in sight the mighty ocean, always 
within sound the steady roar of the great 
deep ! But once poor Prudence Martin 
thought it w,ouJ.d be impossible for her to 


WALTER MARTIN. 


83 


endure the sight and the sound. That 
was after the death of her son, and her 
heart turned with a longing ache to her # 
old home in the distant town, and at last 
she determined to return to it; so she 
took Walter’s boy with her and went 
away. But next year she was back again, 
hf either she nor the little lad could live 
separate from the sea. The day of their 
return, when Walter caught sight again 
of the vast waters, such a cry of joy went 
up from his heart as made her weep. 

‘‘ He belongs to the sea,” she said, “ and 
I will never separate them.” 

But while he was growing stronger, 
year by year, and taller, even out of child- 
hood into boyhood, and so on to youth, 
old Prudence was getting crooked and 
infirm, and more and more. . Walter’s 
loving eyes were quick to perceive this, 
and he insisted on removing one burden 
and another from her shoulders, till now 
her days were free from care, if not quite 
free from toil. 


84 : WALTER MARTIN. 

Very little anxious thought did Walter 
give to any one that cared for him. He 
^ was neither wild nor selfish. He did not 
think it of the first and chief importance 
that he should be pleased, no matter 
whose the cost. Always he carried about 
him a reverent thought of his father, and 
his father’s mother. And that he might 
fill, as best he might, the place death had 
made vacant was his chief ambition. To 
please this poor old woman, the nearest 
and the dearest in the world to him, was 
Walter’s constant care. 

But were we on a violet hunt ? Where 
shall we find that flower so dainty, mod- 
est, unpretending? You would think 
that Walter Martin, stumbling about in 
his rude, awkward way, would be much 
more likely to destroy, than discover, that 
tiny fragrant thing. What should he 
know of violets ? Or why should he care 
for them ? 

One day Walter stood in the door of 
the fish-shed with a bit of paper and a 


WALTER MARTIN. 


85 


pencil in his hand, reckoning the profits 
of the season’s labor. He had been 
“heading up” the barrels of packed fish 
now ready for the market. While he 
stood there, up from the beach came 
Archie Town. 

“Come down,” cried he, “you’re the 
very man I want. Prindle is bragging 
away again, and I’ve been betting on 
you. He says he can beat you at rowing 
all to pieces.” 

“Let him say so,” answered Walter, 
“I don’t care.” But the flush on his 
face told another story to the quick eye 
of Archie Town. 

“ Don’t care ! I guess you’re no such 
flunky as that! Prindle is a goose to 
brag so. John and I are going out in 
our boat — you come and get out yours. 
I guess we could any of us take the wind 
out of Prindle’s sails, though he’s a first- 
rate fellow enough. Look! what a sea 
to sail on ! Smooth as a house floor.” 

“He’s a first-rate fellow, Kufus is,” 

The Sparrow’s Fall. 6 


86 


WALTER MARTIN. 


said Walter. But at tlie same time his 
eyes wandered out over that smooth sea. 
It was difficult to resist all the influences 
that bore down on him at this minute; 
especially difficult to resist the persuasion 
of Archie Town. For Archie had a way 
of managing afiairs to suit himself, so that 
people liked to help him. Besides, among 
the fishermen’s sons, he was really a great 
man. He had been on three long whal- 
ing voyages, and no end to the stories he 
could tell of adventures up and down the 
deep in sailing vessels, encountering ice- 
bergs and great whales ; so that, of com’se, 
he must look at the business carried on 
here along the coast as very small and 
trifling in' comparison. The boys regard- 
ed him as a hero, and liked him all the 
better because he never boasted, though 
he would talk of his doings before the 
mast by the hour if anybody wanted to 
hear. 

Walter seemed suddenly to change his 
mind about the boat-race while Archie 


WALTEK MAKTIN. 


87 


was speaking. It took him but a moment 
to put pencil and paper into pocket-book, 
turn the shed-key in its padlock, then he 
was ready to set out for the shore. When 
Archie said that he and Acre, the young 
fellow who had come down from the city 
to spend his vacation, were going to ac- 
cept Prindle’s challenge, that seemed to 
change the aspect of affairs. 

From that moment Walter seemed to 
think more favorably of testing arm and 
oar with Rufus. 

But yet it was quite a new, and not a 
pleasant thing to think of Rufus as a 
rival. Once there had been no limit to 
the admiration with which Walter re- 
garded him. 1^0 page ever followed his 
master with truer devotion than Walter 
had followed him. He had taken as much 
pride in Prindle’s feats as Rufus himself 
could do, and never even questioned 
whether he were not himself a match for 
the strong fellow. But Archie Town 
had stirred up some queer, disagreeable 


88 


WALTER MARTIN. 


thoughts in his mind, roused an ambition 
very hard to entertain, quite different 
from that Walter used to feel when striv- 
ing to do and be his best, that he might 
please his grandmother and Rose Hen- 
drick. 

Besides, the best of friends could not 
have been blind and deaf to the fact that 
of late Rufus had fallen into a boastful way 
of talking, that was becoming more and 
more disagreeable and annoying to Walter, 
particularly as it was not to himself he 
made these damaging observations, but just 
as often to Archie Town and John Acre, 
before whom Walter felt he had not only 
his own good standing to maintain, but 
also that of his father and grandmother, 
for steady going, strong, brave, and suc- 
cessful people. 

All these things, working together, had 
produced Walter’s consent to join in the 
race, so the boys made their arrange- 
ments and got out their boats. Then 
idlers, of course, must collect to watch 


WALTER MARTIN. 


89 


proceedings, and all things were at length 
in readiness, when — who should come 
down to the beach but Walter’s grand- 
mother ! 

From the window of her cabin she had 
witnessed all these doings; saw the con- 
ference held between Archie and Walter 
at the shed-door; interpreted the hesita- 
tion and the final consent of Walter ; and 
had concluded in her own mind that dan- 
ger was ahead. So she came tottering 
down to the beach, and made her way 
through the company that had gathered 
to watch the boys’ departure, and there 
she stood face to face with Walter, who 
looked not a little astonished and a 
good deal embarrassed by her unexpect- 
ed appearance, for this was one of her 
bad days, when rheumatism ruled over 
her poor old body from the crown of 
her gray head to the soles of her poor 
feet. 

Bent and pale, and breathing hard from 
the difficult haste she had made, there she 


90 


WALTER MARTIN. 


stood, looking up into the face of her 
sturdy son, and she said : 

“ What’s this, W alter Martin ? What’re 
you going to do, lad ? Is’t a race ?” 

W e’re only going out for a little, 
grandma,” he answered in a coaxing 
tone. “ The day is so fine, and I’ve all 
my work done.” 

There lay the four boats side by side — 
Archie Acre and Prindle already in their 
places, their oars in their hands. Wal- 
ter’s* place alone was empty. And how 
could any one resist the pleading of those 
four urgent faces ? 

But she was thinking of her son who 
was drowned before her eyes — O long ago ! 
but it seemed as if it were only yesterday. 

Still Kufus Prindle was a great favor- 
ite with her. She seemed to admire in 
him the very daring and hardihood she 
feared to see in Walter. He came to her 
now and added his weighty word : they 
were not going far out ; in an hour would 
be back again ; anybody could see there 


WALTER MARTIN. 91 

wasn’t in sky or water a single sign of 
storm. 

Prindle knew •how to persuade ; his 
words had more weight than any the 
other lads could speak. Besides, surely 
she must remember how before now Prin- 
dle had made his boasts in a way that 
was very disagreeable for any young fel- 
low to hear. And Dame Martin, who 
had been so proud of her son, was she so 
blind she could not see how like his father 
W alter grew ? 

I wish you could have seen this Wal- 
ter as he listened now to every word 
spoken by Bufus and the others to per- 
suade his grandmother. How eagerly he 
watched the effect of the words she spoke ! 
And he saw the very moment* when she 
began to waver. He knew when she be- 
gan to rid herself of fears that she might 
consent to their pleasure. He said to 
himself, if she yielded to their request, it 
shouldn’t be at his urging; he wouldn’t 
have that to think of, so he kept silent. 


92 


WALTER MARTIN. 


But now, when she began to speak, her 
voice faltering, her words wavering, he 
turned and looked at h^r. 

Just then she said, 

‘‘Well boys, mind. I’ll hold you to 
your word. Don’t go out far, and come 
back when your hour’s up. I won’t 
stand in the way of your pleasuring 
always. You don’t get overly much. 
You may go, Walter. You will be a 
good boy about it.” 

But no sooner had she spoken thus 
than Walter answered, “No, Grandma, 
I’m not going, by your leave.” 

They all looked at him amazed, so 
quickly did he speak, and so different his 
words were from what they had expected. 
But though they looked as people do who 
cannot believe what they hear, there was 
no mistake in the first hearing ; his voice, 
so mild and gentle, was yet very firm. 
She had yielded her own will and pleas- 
ure for his sake, and he would not accept 
the sacrifice. 


WALTER MARTIN. 


93 


Let Kufus boast, let tbe city lads think 
what they chose, Grandma’s ]ileasure was 
the first to be consulted; it shamed him 
to think tffat instead of hurrying to yield 
his wishes to her will, he had let her offer 
to surrender her fears to his pride ! 

“No, Grandma,” said he, and tender 
love was in his voice, “you’d worry about 
us every instant we were gone, and it 
couldn’t give me any pleasure, such a 
race, when I thought you were behind 
here, going over all the while what hap- 
pened once in this very bay. I dare say, 
Prindle, you’re the best rower round 
about; I always thought you were; any 
way you say you are ; so now I guess I 
may as well go back to the shed and 
attend to business.” 

Walter looked around him as he spoke. 
He saw some faces that smiled, as if he 
had done the right thing. He knew he 
had. There stood Rose Hendrick, for 
one, holding his grandmother’s hand, and 
looking the heartiest kind of approbation. 


94 


WALl’ER MARTIN. 


ISTobody could think of calling a lad a 
coward w^o spoke as he had done. 
Prindle could call him a milksop if he 
.pleased, and he did, and Walter heard 
him ; but he said to himself, dorCt 
mean he’s only disappointed.^’’ l^ever- 
theless he walked off with his grand- 
mother, and helped her over the rough 
j ways until they came back to the shed 
! again, when he turned the key in the 
padlock as if nothing had happened, and 
I going in invited Grandmother and Rose 
I to look at some of his famous cured fish. 

I Row will you not agree with me that 
I under the rough, wild, stony bank a sweet 
I violet, a lovely bit of humility was bloom- 
ing, that had a heavenly color and a 
dainty fragrance ? 


THE WORTH OF A FRIEND. 

The season was a remarkably poor one 
for fishing. Rever had a year so barren 
been known, so the old men said, and 


WALTER MARTIN. 


95 


anxious grew the faces of the heads of 
families as they looked forward with 
wondering to the end of this year of 
unrewarded toil. In spite of diligent and 
patient labor, the result was so disheart- 
ening, that^ if you had gone down to the 
beach, and visited among the cabins, you 
must have seen that some calamity had 
fallen- on the people. 

Of the few quintals Walter Martin had 
been able to preserve, he had sold the 
greater proportion. All the winter store 
he had reserved was packed now in one 
solitary barrel, and that barrel was by no 
means full. 

In better years half a dozen barrels 
might have been seen standing where 
that single one now stood, and let any 
neighbor’s stock run low, it was always 
understood whose abundant supply would 
answer any demand of need. 

Well, out of this shed one morning the 
solitary, the precious barrel was missing ! 
What a cruel shock was that for Walter 


96 


WALTER MARTIN. 


Martin when he went into the shed and 
discovered his loss! For a while he 
seemed incapable of stirring or of think- 
ing. At last he began to move about; 
slowly, in blank amazement, his eyes 
wandered around the shed. It would have 
greatly grieved you to see the fear and 
anguish his kind and honest face be- 
trayed. 

By and by he began to walk slowly 
about the shed, to examine every corner. 
There was a chink in the roof where 
a ray of light had fallen, day after day, 
for years. To it poor Walter’s eyes 
turned after every step of vain investiga- 
tion, as if from thence some new light 
might be thrown upon the mystery 1 At 
last, and what more could he do after 
that? he examined the padlock, forget- 
ting that when he came just now into the 
shed he took the key from his pocket, and 
unlocked the door as usual. 

When all this search was made and 
over he began to think of his grand- 


WALTER MARTIN. 


97 


mother and of Rufus Prindle. And these 
thoughts pained him ; they caused his 
tears to flow. Such bitter tears were 
they as he had never shed before. But 
they were few. He dared not stand thus 
giving way to grief while something must 
he done, which perhaps he could do, 
toward recovering his lost treasure. 

He was going out of the shed when his 
friend Rufus passed by. Rufus Prindle, 
the brave, gallant fellow, who seemed 
always to bring to pass the thing he 
wished for, and to do the thing he chose ; 
who was always successful in his under- 
takings: he was now carrying a pair of 
oars and sails across either shoulder, and 
these things were the furniture of his new 
boat. 

“ Come in here,” said Walter of a sud- 
den, and Rufus accordingly turned back 
and went in. 

Then Walter told his friend of the loss 
that had befallen him. 

Rufus listened as a friend might listen, 


98 


WALTER MARTIN. 


then lie laid down sails and oars on the 
great rough table that ran around the 
shed and examined every corner, up and 
down. How the mischief could the thief 
have managed it? Was Walter on hand 
when the contractor took away his bar- 
rels? Of course he was; Walter attended 
to his own business always; but did he 
feel quite sure that the one barrel wasn’t 
slipped off by mistake, of course by mis- 
take, with the others ? 

For his part, if Rufus had been called 
upon to say anything about his friend’s 
affairs, he should have said that over and 
above what W alter meant to sell this year 
he would have three full barrels of fish left. 
And who could doubt what Rufus Prin- 
dle said ? He spoke in serious earnest ; 
he had no idea that though every other 
man’s supply ran short, that of hard- 
working, prudent W alter Martin could. 

But, yes, Walter answered in reply to 
all this, he was in the shed when the con- 
tractor took away the barrels. He had 


WALTER MARTIN. 


99 


helped indeed in loading, and he couldn’t 
think of any way the robbery could have 
been carried out except by the padlock. 
Either the key had been taken from him 
some time when he did not know it, and 
restored again in the same secret and mys- 
terious manner, or some one had procured 
a duplicate. A barrel of fish couldn’t 
have been spirited away without hands, 
that was very certain. The deed must 
have been done by somebody who took 
the fish because he meant to take them. 
Then Rufus asked had Walter the least 
suspicion of the man ? 

Walter was looking straight at Rufus, 
his dear friend, when he asked that ques- 
tion, and Rufus met that troubled, anxious 
glance with, it seemed, an equal trouble 
and anxiety of heart. 

“It wouldn’t be so bad,” said Walter 
with a changing face, and his voice trem- • 
bled, “ it wouldn’t be nearly so bad, and 
I guess whoever’s got what cost me so 
much, and don’t belong to him, has made 


100 


WALTER MARTIN. 


a poor bargain of it. Of course be bas ! 
but I don’t like to tbink wbat grandma 
will feel about it. Besides, we need tbe 
fisb.” 

“So,” said Eufus, and be stroked bis 
cbin, looking very grave. He too was at 
a loss to' know what could be done. He 
seemed to tbink that if they two kept a 
close watch and said nothing to anybody 
yet a while, it was more than likely they’d 
light on the thief before they expected. 

Yes, Walter thought so too; and now 
of course he need not trouble his poor 
grandmother yet a while with the knowl- 
edge of their loss. 

“ To be sure,” said Eufus again. “ But 
we must keep a sharp look-onf, you and 
me. It will be queer if we don’t, one of 
us, set a pretty trap for him. The thing 
isn’t going to rest here, though we seem 
. to rest a bit. It’s a clear loss to you ; 
greater than I should have thought it 
could be. But it will be made up to you 
some way, you keep expecting that, for 


WALTER MARTIN. 


101 


I’ve found that what you keep looking for 
generally comes. I don’t know what you 
sold your fish for this season.” 

“ Twenty dollars a barrel. As good as 
went to market ; Firkin told me they were 
the best.” 

Poor Walter could afibrd to boast a lit- 
tle now. ISTo danger of his feeling too 
much elated by a little success or praise 
when he had met with a misfortune so 
very grave as this. 

The boys ■ kept their sad secret quietly 
between them. It seemed like a new 
bond that drew them nearer to each oth- 
er. Walter never liked Rufus so well as 
in these days when he seemed to have 
taken his friend’s interest so to heart, and 
to bear his burden with him, and to wait 
with him in this long and hateful watch. 
Waiting for a thief to betray himself is 
not a pleasant business. But Rufus al- 
ways said, “ Don’t give it up ; I expect to 
see the fish walking back into your shed 
some day, or another barrel just as good, 

The Sparrow’s FalL 7 


102 


WALTER MARTIN. 


for I’m getting to believe that whoever 
came into yonr shed without leave to car- 
ry off what he found there just borrowed 
what he found. You may depend you’ll 
be paid back some day with interest. It’s 
an odd way of borrowing, but I don’t 
believe the fellow lives about here who 
would really rob you, Walt.” 

It made Walter happier to think it 
might be so, for it was worse, a thousand 
times to get suspicious of his neighbors 
than to lose his property. 

One day it came to pass that Walter 
Martin ran into Prindle’s back yard, look- 
ing for a bit of rope. Rufus had sent him 
to bring it. While he was searching 
through the shed for it something flashed 
on Walter’s sight that for an instant 
seemed to blind him. What was it ? Only 
a splinter of. wood that lay 4n- the inidst 
of a pile of broken old barrels, boat oars, 
and the like. But when he saw that frag- 
ment his eyes, feet, hands, and heart 
seemed to stand still— only a bit of a bar- 


WALTER MARTIN. 


103 


rel-head, and nothing more, but then the 
head of such a barrel ! His very lost bar- 
rel of fish ! 

How, how could he possibly know? 
Why, into it he had driven one day a num- 
ber of tiny nails, and those nails formed . 
his initials, and here they were in the 
fragment, W. M.,” as plain as any one 
could wish to read them. 

One flash of the eye took in the fact, 
one movement of the hand caught up the 
particle and the rope he sought, and out 
of the shed he ran ; but as. he went he 
flung the bit of barrel-head behind a clifi*, 
for he might want it again, and went on 
his way to Rufus. 

There in the boat sat Rufus waiting for 
him. They were going out this bright 
autumn day together, going a fishing. 
When Walter looked at his friend it 
seemed to him for a moment that he never 
could step into the boat with him, or handle 
those oars, or keep time with the sturdy 
stroke of Rufus. But when he looked at 


104 


WALTER MARTIN. 


Kufus his thoughts underwent an instant 
change. His doubt did not entirely dis- 
appear, hut there sat his friend^ and he 
could not give him up until he knew the 
worst. It might be — must it not be that 
Rufus really knew nothing of the theft, 
except what he had told him ! 

Rivals though these young fellows were 
sometimes called, Walter Martin would 
choose to never recover the fish or discov- 
er the guilty one if at the same time he 
must give up his love for Rufus Prindle, 
and his confidence in that brave, hand- 
some lad whose praise was never half so 
loud on other lips as on his. 

While they were busy out at sea, busy 
as they must be now, since every fish they 
caught in these days was so much more 
security against winter want, a great 
storm of wind suddenly and all unnoticed 
arose, driving spray and rain before it, 
and the rain froze as it fell, a shower of 
piercing sleet. 

The boys began now to row as if for 


WALTER MARTIN. 


105 


life. They knew well the dangers por- 
tended by this wind and the aspect of the 
heavens. 

At last an oar was broken — in the hand 
of Rufus it broke — and now "Walter la- 
bored alone, with steady stroke and reso- 
lute will ; but he was no more than a reed 
in such a wind. By and by the boat cap- 
sized. Alas! this brave new boat, with 
its gayly painted decorations — this boat 
which cost so much — this pride of Prin- 
dle’s heart 1 it was doomed to wreck and 
ruin. 

Then they clung to the sides, these two, 
and dared not strike away toward the 
land ; indeed their only safety lay in cling- 
ing to the boat so long as a fragment 
should remain. 'No thought of rivalry 
disturbed them now ; neither of them had 
now any pride or vanity to gratify ; there 
were no spectators standing on the beach 
to watch the issue of their struggle for life. 

Rufus Prindle gave out first. ISTot in 
effort, but in hope. 


106 


WALTER MARTIN. 


“We shall never get ashore,” said he 
in one of those awful pauses of silence 
when the wind had lulled as if to give 
them opportunity to speak the last words 
to each other. 

- “Don’t give it up yet,” was Walter’s 
brave answer. “We must fight our way 
through it. What would granny do with- 
out me ? Hang on, Kufus. Keep as still 
as you can. Hang on for the sake of 
the old folks at home.” 

So Rufus hung on ; but by and by came 
up again a voice that sounded like de- 
spair, 

“Walt, I’m gone ! I’m frozen !” 

“ Hang on, I tell you,” shouted Walter. 
“ Hang on, old fellow, our time aint come 
to go yet” 

And Rufus hung on. 

But by and by came up a voice that 
sounded, O like what ! despair, repent- 
ance, desperate determination to throw 
off a curse before he died, 

“ Walt, Walt, that barrel, I took it 1” 


WALTER MARTIN. 


107 


What if you did ? Hang on ; we’re 
getting in ; don’t you see, Eufus, we shall 
soon be there !” 

“ But I didn’t know ’twas your last 
barrel. I thought you’d got more’n your 
share, working night and day so. And 
I thought you’d take as much pleasure in 
the boat. I was g?ing to pay you back. 
I’m glad the boat’s a wreck.” 

“Hever mind,” said Walter again. 

We’ll be ashore pretty quick. Hold on, 
we’ve got so much to live for, both of 
us.” 

- From the moment these words escaped 
the two boys their hold on the boat grew 
stronger; their hold on life became sure, 
and, as it really seemed, the fierceness of 
the storm abated. 

They came at last ashore. Pale, ex- 
hausted, they looked at pach other as they 
dragged themselves out of the water. 

‘‘Let bygones be bygones,” said Wal- 
ter — they were the first words he spoke 
as he struggled to his feet on the beach. 


108 


WALTER MARTIN. 


“It’s buried out there in the sea, what 
you said. I don’t remember it. We’ll 
begin again.” 

He reached out his hand to Rufus, he 
smiled on his old friend, and Rufus caught 
at the hand as he had clutched at the boat 
just now out there in the raging sea. He 
had now to be sav?d from more than 
drowning — from self-contempt and a dis- 
honored character. 

But “to-day,” said Jesus to the thief 
whose whispered prayer had reached him 
on the cross, “ to-day shalt thou be with 
me in paradise.” 

Repentance and confession and faitH 
in the precious Saviour opened wide the 
gate of heaven. 

They opened also a new path in this 
life to Rufus Prindle, where, arm in arm, 
he walks with the friend who loves him 
dearest, our brave Walter Martin. 


SYLVA’S GARDEN. 


One morning a little '£gure went up 
and down Father Thompson’s graveled 
garden walks, and through the shrub- 
beries, and round and round, peering into 
every flower and bush, and into contented 
birdsnests, looking as happy and amazed 
as if in all her life she had never walked 
in such a lovely place. 

It was all as if a fairy had alighted on 
the earth ; but a very brown fairy indeed, 
for the little girl looked as if she had sel- 
dom worn a hat, and at this moment she 
had only a gayly colored kerchief twisted 
and tied about her head. Fairies don’t 
wear such gear, you know ; and besides, 
her eyes were not blue, which is the color 
we should choose for fairies ; they were 


110 


SYLVA’S GAKDEN. 


instead as black as the blackest black eyes 
yon ever beheld. 

The snn hadn’t risen yet, and I don’t 
know what brought Sylva Thompson out 
of her bed so early ; but there in the early 
morning she stood before her window, look- 
ing out into the garden. This was her first 
act every morning, to look into the gar- 
den, but hardly ever before sunrise. Do 
you suppose she could have had the feel- 
ing that somebody was out there who had 
no right to stroll through those pleasant 
walks ? Because there she saw somebody. 
The body we thought like a fairy, though 
all unhke. A body not bigger than her- 
self, and a stranger to Sylva. A thief 
she had no doubt. Most likely she be- 
longed to the gipsy company that had 
camped in the woods not far away. Miss 
Sylva would teach her a lesson ! 

So Miss Sylva dressed herself, hurried 
down stairs, and out at the back door, cau- 
tiously, swiftly, just as a policeman might 
proceed when he would surprise a thief. 


SYLVA’S GAEDEN. 


Ill 


Now it happened that the gipsy, for 
gipsy she really was, stood at that mo- 
ment in the walk nearest the door, and 
when Sylva opened it she was startled, as 
a little bird would be if you should spring 
upon it in such fashion. So she ran away. 
And she had a few flowers in her hands, 
but she didn’t throw them down as if 
they hindered her flight in the least, nor 
as if she felt guilty for having gathered 
them. 

Sylva sprang after her. Fast she pur- 
sued, till at last she tripped and fell. 

When the girl saw that, for she turned 
to see how closely her pursuer gained up- 
on her, she stopped short, then she began 
to walk up the path again, for Sylva con- 
tinued sitting there on the ground with 
her hands between her knees as if she 
were unable to move. Crying? No; 
but she saw that the girl was coming back, 
so she sat quietly and waited. 

Then how quietly, as softly as a leaf 
flutters down from the tree to the grass, 


112 


SYLVA’S GAEDEN. 


stooped this wild little creature to Sylva’s 
side and asked, 

“ Did you get hurt 

Sylva looked up with such an expres- 
sion on her face you would rather have 
been the gipsy girl herself, I hope, than 
she, for it isn’t a sin to be born a savage, 
but it is a- sin to be cruel. 

‘‘ISTo,” she answered. “ Where did you 
get those flowers, I’d like to know ? And 
how did you get in here ?” 

The girl looked down at the few little 
blossoms she had plucked, the violets and 
the roses, not nearly a handful, but mere- 
ly two or three. 

“ I walked in to look at such a pretty 
place,” said she. “ There’s more flow- 
ers here than I ever saw before. And so 
pretty ! I only picked these few, and you 
have such a sight.” When she said this 
she looked right at Sylva — don’t think “ as 
bold as a thief,” for no thief ever looked 
that way. 

“They weren’t yours,” said Sylva. 


SYLYA’S GAKDEN. 


113 


“ They say it’s as bad to take a pin that 
don’t belong to yon as to take a hundred 
dollars.” 

“ Do they ?” replied the girl. “ I never 
heard of such a thing before.” 

“ It’s true, though.” 

“ Don’t you like me to have these ?” 

“ I’d like you to say, lyy your leme, any 
way.” 

“So I would, but I looked and I 
couldn’t find any one to ask,” said the 
girl. Wild though she looked, and was 
indeed, she spoke as if amazed at Sylva’s 
harsh and cruel speech. 

You don’t live in the woods, I hope,” 
said Sylva, who looked as if she might 
pretty soon begin to be ashamed of her 
rough words. 

“ Pretty near we do ; though we don’t 
live any where like you.” 

“You’re gipsies, then,” said Sylva. 

’ “ Yes, we are.” 

“ Well, I can tell you we wouldn’t like 
to have such people walking in our gar- 


114 SYLVA’S GAEDEN. 

den Tip and down, as if it belonged to 
them, while everybody was asleep. Fa- 
ther lost nearly all his melon crop the 
other night.” 

Of course Sylva meant that the gipsies 
must have robbed the garden, and that 
was what the little girl understood. She 
blushed so you couldn’t help seeing the 
red through the tan, and Sylva took that for 
a sign that she was right, so that she didn’t 
believe the child when she said she hadn’t 
seen any melons, and didn’t think one of 
the men would take a thing he didn’t pay 
for out of such pretty gardens. 

And now the little girl turned away 
from Sylva, who saw plainly that she was 
about to go. Why should she stay, in- 
deed ? She had stayed long enough to 
see all the beauty of the garden vanish. 
A few minutes ago it was like an enchant- 
ed land to her ; but it was not so now, and 
how very sad to feel so ! The girl that had 
grown up in the garden thought she had 
no right there, thought she was a thief 


SYLVA’S GAEDEN. 


115 


and that she belonged to thieves, and be- 
lieved that her people had been robbing 
Thompson of his melons! Well, you 
understand, one under such suspicions 
couldn’t very well turn right away from 
them to enjoy the roses and the violets ! 
Indeed, the few blossoms she had gathered 
Jiad already fallen from her hand, and 
^ there they lay upon the walk. 

But now, when Sylva saw that she was 
going, a strange thought flashed through 
her mind. She seemed to open her eyes 
wide upon herself, and to see what wasn’t 
pleasant to see, and a sudden fear came 
upon her as if she had done a wrong, and 
dared not let it go till she had tried to 
right it. So she called, “ Come back here.” 

The little girl looked back when Sylva 
called her, but she went on the faster. 

want to give you some flowers,” 
cried Sylva, “ to take home with you.” 

The girl stood still, quite still, but only 
long enough to say, “ I don’t want any ;” 
then she went on again. 


116 SYLVA’S GAKDEN. 

Well now, what was to be done? Per- 
haps Sylva said to herself, ‘‘Well, I don’t 
care. You needn’t have what you don’t 
want. I’m sure it makes no difference to 
me.” 

IS'ot so indeed. Sylva had spoken such 
words as she had never heard her father 
speak on any provocation; the flowers 
had lost their color, their pleasant odor, 
was all gone, if it was really true that she 
could not make this gipsy girl desire them 
again. 

So she started and ran after the girl, 
gathering whatever bloom she found in 
her way, till she came to the gate with 
her hands full, panting, and quite out of 
breath. “ Here,” she cried, thrusting her 
arms between the pickets, for the girl had 
gone through and shut the gate behind 
her. 

“ Ho the child shook her head. 

“ But you must.” 

“ You think we’re thieves, but we 
aint,” said the girl, and her bright eyes 


SYLVA’S GAEDEN. IIY 

filled with tears, and through her tears 
she looked at Sylva Thompson. 

“I don’t think so,” said Sylva; “I 
know you aint. I feel so ashamed for 
saying that. Come, take these flowers, 
or I wont ever want to look at a rose or 
a pink again.” 

So the little girl came back to the gatej 
and she was generous, for she took the 
flowers, which slowly began to grow 
bright to her eyes, and with her eyes as 
well as lips she thanked Sylva, who, for 
her part, walked back through the garden 
when the gipsy was gone, feeling that if 
the poor wanderer despised her she did 
right. 

What do you think about it ? Do you 
say that the gipsy had no right to walk 
about a man’s premises and gather a few 
flowers without invitation? Well, of 
course she hadn’t. But then, wasn’t it a 
great deal worse for a girl who wasn’t a 
gipsy, who had been brought up in the 
midst of so much beauty, in the very 

The Sparrow’s Fall. 8 


118 


sylva’s garden. 


midst of millions of soft, bright flowers, to 
show such a harsh, sharp, cruel temper 
as Sylva had shown here this early morn- 
ing ? and I am glad she felt it so. 

This Sylva Thompson, you must under- 
stand, lived out of doors almost as much 
as within the house; and her face was 
hardly less brown than the gipsy girl’s ; 
as brown as a bird’s ; as brown as a spar- 
row’s, we’ll say. And the sparrow had 
had a fall ! Will not our God regard 
it? 

A fall! you wonder at tl>at. Is not 
unkindness a fall from kindness, tender- 
ness, and love ? Is not suspicion an ugly 
fall from generous trust and confidence 
in the honesty of others? So had this 
sparrow fallen. And OUE heeds the 
sparrow’s fall ! 

Sylva was the gardener’s only daugh- 
ter; and the gardener had no son. So 
his Sylva was of course the greatest help 
to him. And she felt her importance; 
in many pleasant and right ways she felt 


sylva’s garden. 119 

it, and in some ways that were wrong 

and disagreeable. 

^ • 

It was Sylva who made the immortelle 
wreaths, of which s.o many were bought 
in the town by mourners for the graves 
of their friends. Also she gathered seed 
and dried and packed it in paper bags 
for the market, together with great 
bunches of amaranth and immortelle, and 
beautiful pink acroclinium for winter 
bouquets. Though but a little one, Sylva 
was, as I said, a great help to her father, 
a skillful and obliging little girl. And 
generally kind^ and she would have said, 
I dare say, unselfish ; but selfishly and 
unkindly she had sinned more than once 
in her short life. Then she had need to 
be forgiven. Then some day she must 
repent with a godly sorrow, that needeth 
not to be repented of. 

A week after the gipsy girl’s visit, 
Sylva was working one morning at the 
top of her speed, (for the morrow was to 
be a holiday and a picnic,) when an old 


120 


SYLVA’S GAKDEN. 


woman, bent and wrinkled, came into the 
yard, and walked slowly up the neat 
gravel walk that was bordered and shaded 
by the most beautiful ornamental trees, 
and just beyond the trees were beds of 
flowers in the grass, beds fllled to the 
margin with the -sweetest, softest, bright- 
est flowers. Up this walk was the old 
woman coming. Down this walk the 
gipsy girl was running only the other 



Toward the little cottage that looked 
like a bower, hidden almost by the vines 
that overran the walls and mounted to 
the very chimney-tops, came the stranger, 
old, and brown, and feeble. 

And Sylva watched her coming, won- 
dering what she could want, for visitors 
of this kind did not often come to the 
lodge, though visitors were frequent there, 
almost as many young people as hum- 
ming-birds and bees were in the habit of 
coming to the garden ; and grave business 
men in the spring and fall, and indeed 



Ko 731 


The old Gipsy Woman. 








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SYLVA’S GAEDEN. 


123 


the summer through, came to consult 
Gardener Thompson and examine his 
stock. 

When this woman had come quite to 
the steps she asked Sylva for her father. 
He had gone to town. Was anything 
wanting 1 For Sylva was accustomed to 
receive all orders when her father was 
away, and she was so reliable that he 
was in the habit of telling people that his 
little Sylva was his right-hand man. 

So now the old woman, who looked 
very tired, and very much disturbed, as 
if some trouble or some grief weighed 
heavily upon her, sat dowif on the steps 
where Sylva sat, and asked. 

What is’t she’s making ?” 

Sylva answered, with a little toss of the 
head that expressed not pleasure entirely 
at this questioning, as if her first thought 
might be, “What’s that to her, I’d like 
to know ?” But she answered, 

“I’m making a wreath, do you see? 
Some folks call it a crown.” 


124 


SYLVA’S GAEDEN. 


“That’s what I want; one o’ them;” 
said the old woman. 

“ What for ?” asked Sylva. 

“ For the price you get of other folks 
for such things,” she answered; and if 
the old woman hadn’t looked so serious 
and so grieved, you might have thought 
that she spoke very sharply. 

Sylva wasn’t looking at her, she was so 
busy with her work ; but she didn’t seem 
at all pleased by what she heard in the 
old woman’s voice. 

“People pay for the best crosses and 
crowns six shillings and a dollar. But I 
make a cheaper kind for poorer customers, 
so as to suit everybody.” 

She said this with bitter pride in her 
voice ; one couldn’t help feeling the pride 
any more than one could help tasting 
rhubarb in a cup of milk. 

“ I want your best,” said the old 
woman. “ I don’t want a cross, neither. 
She’s done with crosses. Give me the 
best crowii you’ve got. I dare say you 


SYLVA’S GARDEN. 


125 


make them pretty, my lady ; but you 
couldn’t make one I’d think good enough 
for her. But show me the best you’ve 
got.” 

Sylva forgot her hurry, hearing such a 
voice, such words. She laid down her 
work and looked at the old woman a 
moment without speaking, then she 
asked, 

“ Who was she 

It was a hard question to answer ; not 
without a struggle the old woman 
said, * 

“My little girl. She was about your 
age; she wasn’t of your kind though. 
She’d give an old woman a seat and stand 
up herself, or sit on the ground, if there 
wasn’t another chair.” 

“ Sit down,” said Sylva, making room 
on the bench where she sat. But the old 
woman didn’t seem to hear. “Was she 
sick long ?” asked Sylva, standing up. 

“Only four days; but ailing a little. 
You saw Patty maybe. She brought 


126 


SYLVA’S GARDEN. 


some roses from your garden one day, 
didn’t she? She said a little lady gave 
them to her. Was that you?” 

‘‘ O she isn’t dead 1” exclaimed Sylva ; 
“ and I know that you feel sorry for her 
now.” 

“Was it you gave them to her, one 
morning, very early ?” 

Sylva for a moment couldn’t speak. 

“ Did she wear a gay handkerchief on 
her head?” she asked. 

“ Yes, that’s my Patty. She liked that 
kercher, it’s tied round her hea9 yet ; but 
she’s lying under a tree, and under a sod 
over yonder. And I want the crown for 
that. We’re going away this afternoon, 
and I’ll know there’s something pretty 
left there with her in the woods. I put 
those flowers in her coffin in her hand, 
she’s holding of ’em now.” 

Sylva hid her face, so ashamed, so 
grieved, she had never felt before. She 
could not keep back her tears. The old 
woman went on speaking very kindly now 


SYLVA’S GARDEN. 127 

to her, for she said that Patty had a 
mourner here. .• 

“ You ought to seen her when she come 
hack with the posies you give her. She 
never would a took ’em if you hadn’t a 
givin’ ’em to her.” 

“I know it. I picked them for her, 
every one,” answered Sylva through her 
sobs. “What did she do when she came 
back?” 

“ She wasn’t like herself. I never sees 
her so afore. You know what they call 
’em up there, angels? She was like 
them, for she wasn’t like any of us. 
It was the day after she took sick, and 
laid like a little bird dropped from a tree ; 
but she kept singing on like, as if she 
would sing if she couldn’t fly, and you’d 
a thought she’d been to heaven instead 
of only a garden,'by the way she talked ; 
only there’s one thing troubled her, some- 
thing about ripe melons, do you know 
what ? as if she had been stealing of ’em, 
she that wouldn’t a took a pin for steal- 


128 


SYLVA’S G-AEDEN. 


ing. She wanted the flowers always put 
where she coitld look at ’em, and was 
always calling me to look, and afore she 
went she bid me put ’em in her hands ; 
and that’s the last time she spoke to me. 
Do you expect that flowers grow where 
she’s gone? for if they don’t — ” 

“I wouldn’t think it could be heaven 
without,” said Sylva, not in her usual way ; 
very humbly did she speak, very sorrow- 
ful did she look. 

“Nor I,” said the old woman. “I 
think if flowers never growed there afore 
they must now, or — or — something better.” 

“O,” groaned Sylva, “if I’d only 
known it ! Why didn’t I know about it ? 
Why didn’t somebody come and get fresh 
flowers every day for her, or come for 
me and let me see her? I had some- 
thing to say.” 

“We didn’t none of us expect what 
happened. Would you a come? Would 
you truly, to see my Patty in the camp ?” 

“Would I? I’U give you the best 


SYLVA’S GAEDEN. 


129 


cross and crown I ever made to put on 
her grave. I was keeping it for some- 
thing. If you don’t want the cross for 
her sake take it for mine. Take the 
flowers she’d like best too, and we’ll go 
lay them on her grave, and I’ll keep it 
nice and pretty when you’re gone. I’ll 
remember it always. I’ll make a garden 
there in the woods for Patty.” 

The poor old woman looked into 
Sylva’s face. What did she see there 
with her old red eyes, that were red with 
weeping for her darling who was gone? 
She saw love and sorrow and repentance. 
She saw the light which is never seen, 
not even so much as the faintest ray of 
it, except in the eyes of those whom the 
blessed Spirit has moved to godly sorrow 
that needeth not to be repented of. And 
seeing that light she smiled, as if she 
understood ; and if she understood not it, 
at least she did the words Sylva had 
spoken ; and she grew patient, and quiet 
came into her heart while thinking of her 


130 


SYLVA’S GAKDEN. 


loss, for now she could also think of 
Patty’s garden in the woods ; and to her 
it was as if the child had gone on through 
a flower-blooming path into the garden of 
the Lord, singing as she went. 

And now let Sylva also sing, for by the 
grace of her Saviour she has risen higher 
than the height from which she fell. 
And to her also God gives a “sweet 
new song.” 


TIM BERNAED’S ELECTION. 


What do you suppose Tim Bernard 
was doing when the company elected him 
for captain? 

What were Bezaleel and Aholiah doing 
when they were chosen to decorate the 
tabernacle, and were filled with wisdom 
of heart to work all manner of work of the 
engraver, and of the cunning workman, 
and of the embroiderer in blue and in 
purple, in scarlet and in fine linen, and 
of the weaver, evei^of them that do any 
work, and devise cunning work ?” 

They were, like honest men, industri- 
ously and patiently at work in their shops, 
endeavoring to perfect themselves in their 
employment, doing their best, very likely, 
to please exacting customers. 


132 TIM BEENARD’S ELECTION. 

"WTiat was David doing when it was 
decreed by the King of kings that he 
should be king^ of Israel ? He was tend- 
ing his father’s flocks. 

And so Tim Bernard, in good old scrip- 
tural fashion, was pursuing his work there 
in the tan-yard, very much stained by 
that labor, hands red as the tan itself, and 
face scarcely less brown, with clothes on 
that in the beginning were none of the 
best, and which hard and long use had 
not in the least improved: this was his 
business, and so was he at work when it 
was announced to him that the boys of 
the company had elected him their cap- 
tain. 

I don’t suppose that anything could 
have surprised him more. 

He had enlisted in this Home Guard 
(there wasn’t a lad in it beyond flfteen 
years of age) because he heard a gentle- 
man say, to whose opinion he attached 
great value, when two or three of the boys 
were drumming down the street in Zouave 


> TIM BERNARD’S ELECTION. 133 

■Qiliform, “ That’s the right thing to see ! 
The children shame ns. We onght every 
man of us to he under drill. The war will 
never end till we are more in earnest.” 

So when one of the hoys came to him 
and said, “You must join,” he promised 
to do so at once, though nohody thought 
he would, for he was a sober working lad 
and a member of the Church, and one 
rarely found him mixed up in any of the 
sports of young people. And never did 
one hear his name mentioned in connec- 
tion with any mischief. 

How he happened to he elected captain 
was thus. Three of the hoys belonging to 
the Zouave company were sitting under 
an elm-tree one afternoon talking over the 
business of the company, and about Har- 
ry Forbes, who had been the prime mover 
in enlisting, and was indeed the one wFo 
first proposed to get up a company. They 
were all agreed, of course, that he must 
be the captain. 

In the first place they said, of course he 


134 : TIM BEKNAKD’S ELECTION. 

expected to be ; and that he had a right 
to expect it every one allowed. Hadn’t 
he done more than any other fellow in 
getting the boys together, and in keeping 
them regular in attendance on all meet- 
ings under the big elm in the back yard 
of his father’s office, where the three were 
now sitting ? Didn’t he, moreover, get the 
patterns of the Zouave dress from his 
cousins in the city ? and hadn’t he so man- 
aged that nearly all the boys were now 
perfectly armed and equipped ? 

Then he was the tallest member of the 
company, besides the oldest, and, more- 
over, the richest. He looked like a leader 
in fact, walking very straight, and he had 
such brave bright eyes, and such a firm 
expression kept guard over his mouth. 
He knew in his heart that he was no cow- 
ard, why then shouldn’t he be the captain 
of his company ? 

He came into the yard this afternoon 
expecting to see the fellows he found here 
and many more besides. But the boys 


TIM BERNARD’S ELECTION. 135 

were slow in coming together. However, 
they began at last to come in flocks of 
twos and threes, like birds, so that by and 
by there were more than two thirds of the 
company assembled, and Harry, looking 
at his watch, (it was the watch his grandfa- 
ther had carried, and didn’t he seem grand 
to the other lads, carrying that time-piece 
about with him in his pocket ? the idea of 
any other lad being elected captain of that 
company !) said it was time the rest had 
assembled, but they would wait no lon- 
ger — would at once proceed to business. 

So after a little needful preparation 
Harry went about and collected all the 
votes in his cap, and gave them to the 
smallest boy in the company, telling him 
to read the names aloud. 

The little fellow did so, and, behold, 
there wasn’t another name written on the 
slips of paper but just the name of Harry 
Forbes. 

They all sent up a shout when the read- 
ing was over, and began to gather around 

The Sparrow’s Fall. 9 


136 TIM BEKNARD’S ELECTION. 

Harrj, and he looked pleased enough — 
looked like a leader too, standing np in the 
midst of them so tall and handsome with 
that smile on his face. But to the perfect 
amazement of every soul of them he said, 
looking all round, 

“ Then you think IVe been voting for 
myself, do you 

ITot a soul answered him. 

‘‘Perhaps I haven’t put in my vote 
yet.” 

“ O yes, I saw you do that, Harry 1” 
exclaimed two or three ready voices. 

“ Then you haven’t read my vote, for I 
can tell you, hoys, I haven’t voted for 
myself.” 

The little fellow at that looked into the 
cap again, and then shook out the lining. 
There, indeed, was a scrap of white paper 
fluttering to the ground. He picked it 
up and opened it in a wonder. And to 
hear the name he read set everybody 
wondering, for the name he read was, 

“Tim Bernard.” 


TIM BEENARD’S ELECTION. 137 

Then, indeed, Harry looked at the 
hoys, and they all looked at him, and he 
looked determined, and they looked won- 
dering, and if the truth must be written 
not exceedingly well pleased. 

“ Tim Bernard,” they said, one and 
another. But Harry did not keep them 
long in this suspense. “ Tim Bernard’s 
the man,” said he. “You want the 
bravest fellow, don’t you, for your cap- 
tain ? for maybe this war will last a good 
many years, and we shall all have a 
chance to fight in it yet, and if we do we 
must have the best fellow at our head.” 

The boys were wondering yet, but they 
waited, knowing there must be a deal to 
hear. As close as wheat stalks in a field 
they stood about Harry, and he said, 

“Well, you keep quiet, and I’ll tell 
you what I saw yesterday, and see if you 
don’t go for Tim then.” 

The boys looked grave. Harry him- 
self was so earnest they felt that they 
must bo in earnest too. • 


138 TIM BEENAKD’S ELECTION. 

“I rode out to Wilkins’s tannery yes- 
terday,” said he, “ with an order from 
father, and after I had delivered it and 
was coming away I saw Tim standing by 
one of the vats ; he was tending to some 
hides. I stopped to tell him we were 
going to vote this afternoon, and he said 
he didn’t think he should be able to come, 
they were so crowded with work out 
there, but he’d come if he was able.” 

“Why didn’t he tell you who he’d 
vote for, then?” asked little Paul Lef- 
ferts with his hands plunged deep in his 
pockets, and his brain working fast as a 
shuttle. 

“He did,” said Harry. 

“Well, then, who for?” 

“ For me if you want to know.” 

“Then you’ll have to be the captain 
any how,” said two or three. “ Don’t 
say anything more about Tim.” 

But he answered, 

“Wait till I get through; I want you 
to hear my story. Don’t one of you 


TIM BERNAKD’S ELECTION. 139 


speak again till I’m done. He was work- 
ing there, Tim was, dragging the hides 
about, and I tell you he looked hot and 
tired, when John Wilkins came up to him 
and said, ‘You’ve got my knife. Give 
it back to me.’ ” 

“ I tell you if Tim didn’t look aston- 
ished ; he turned quick on John, the proud, 
ugly fellow, who never lends a hand 
there in the yard, I guess, no matter how 
hard his old father is pushed, and he 
said, quite moderate, ‘ I haven’t had your 
knife ; I’m sorry if you’ve lost it ?’ 

“ ‘ Lost it !’ shouted John, ‘ I haint lost 
it. I let you take- it like a fool, as if 
such a beggar as you are would know 
how to use a gentleman’s knife. You 
run and get it for me quick, or it will be 
worse for you and me.’ You see, boys, 
he’d lost it, and he was just ordering Tim 
to find it again, that was all. I thought 
I’d put in a word, for I was pretty mad. 
I knew when he said he hadn’t had 
John’s knife that he hadn’t, so I asked 


140 TIM BERNARD’S ELECTION. 

if he had looked in his pockets for it, for 
sometimes I’d lost things in that way; 
and I saw father looking everywhere for 
his spectacles the other day, and they 
were all the while on his forehead. But 
he looked madder at me than he had at 
Tim for asking it, and if I hadn’t been 
on horseback we should have got into a 
pretty muss, I know. As it was he stood 
there on the edge of the vat tilting up 
and down, and I felt as if I’d he right 
glad to see himi just tip in and get a 
good coloring, his face looked so black 
and hateful. 

‘‘ Tim went on with his work, and said 
nothing more till John came up behind 
him and hit him in the back, and began 
to swear at him and call him a thief and 
a liar and all sorts of names. Tim’s face 
got as white as a sheet at that ; he lifted 
his arm, and I thought he meant to pitch 
into John the next minute ; but instead of 
doing that he just turned round and went 
at his work again sa if nothing had hap- 


TIM BERNARD’S ELECTION. 141 

pened, for he saw John had been drink- 
ing, and he said to himself he’d wait 
till he was sober, and then ask him if he 
really meant to call such names, and 
really believed he was a thief and a liar. 

‘‘All at once while Tim’s back was 
turned to him, how it happened I don’t 
know, John gave a great shout and then 
he was missing. I tell you that was a 
scare. Tim jumped up from the ground, 
and I never saw such a face as his was 
when he cried out, ‘ O he’s fallen into the 
vat, and he’s been drinking; he’ll never 
get out again.’ 

“ Before I could jump from my horse 
Tim had run to the edge of the vat and 
thrown out a pole, and the next minute 
he was in the tan himself, O ! O ! such a 
sight! 

“But Tim got him out, and if you 
could just have seen him when he had 
John lying there on the edge of the vat, 
how he worked over him and rubbed 
him, looking at him all the while as if he 


142 TIM BERNARD’S ELECTION. 

were the best and bravest fellow in the 
world, instead of the cruelest and most 
cowardly. 

“Well, I made up my mind who our 
captain must be, so if you’re of my 
mind just say so. And if you camlet con- 
sent to march under Tim Bernard let me 
know, because you must understand I 
won’t be captain over him if you break 
up and disband.” 

So Harry Forbes settled it in his own 
mind and for himself. 

You should have heard the shout the 
boys sent up for Tim Bernard the next 
minute. 

That was the way they settled it. And 
Tim was at work in the tan-yard, as J 
said, when they went to tell him of his 
election. 


NED AND NELLY; 

OB, 

THE AHGEL. 


Blessed are they that mourn : for they shall he com- 
forted. — ^Matt. V, 4. 

How still it is about the bouse; the 
pretty white house with the verandah all 
around it, up whose green pillars the 
honeysuckle and the woodbine and the 
white cluster rose-vines are running, 
faster and faster every year, as if the 
older they grew the jnore they learned to 
prize the sunshine; yes, and as though 
bent on making a respectaible figure in 
the world, like respectable vines as they 
are. How still it is about thal house ! 

A few days ago, if you had walked by 
you would have heard some busy talking, 
it is safe to say. 


NED AND NELLY. 


144 


Perhaps you would have seen the chil- 
dren talking to the birds that swung in 
their beautiful Japan cages, in the shade 
of those rose-vines; or you might have 
found them in their play-ground, chas- 
ing ball, rolling hoop, or swinging in 
the great pole-swing that is hung from 
the high branches of the walnut-tree, the 
branches that throw their shade over the 
pleasant cottage. Yery likely. 

But now walk by there, and you’ll hear 
no such busy talking. The birds may 
sing all day long, no one seems to hear 
them ; the honeysuckle blossoms as 
though intent on filling the town with fra- 
grance — the brave, ambitious thing ! — 
but somehow no one, except the honey- 
bee, and, now and then, a passer-by, seems 
to think it worth looking after ! But is 
the honeysuckle any the less sweet for 
that? No indeed; no more than the sky 
is less fair because so few people ever 
think to look, up and see what is going 
on in the heavens. 


NED AND NELLY. 


145 


No one touches the swing from morn- 
ing till night now. There is no more 
hu^y about that house; no funning, no 
gay laughter, no wild fun. 

But there is a child still walking about — 
once there were two. It is a little girl, 
and very sad her face is. If she goes into 
the playground there is nothing to amuse 
her, nothing in those very places where 
she once found so much. Quietly she 
sits down in the swing — silently she sits 
there — if the poles should move with her 
of their own free will she would be sure 
to rise up and go away, for it is no 
amusement that she looks for. 

How long and weary are the days ! So 
many hours, so many long, dull, sad 
hours, that must pass away between the 
rising and the setting of the sun! She 
makes no more toys or ornaments of burr 
or flower ; but, walking or sitting, she is 
thinking always of the strange, thing that 
has happened in that house, which is her 
home. 


146 


NED AND NELLY. 


And what strange thing is this ? 

Where is little ITed ? Once he was al- 
ways by the side of Nelly. If you c^led 
one the other would be sure to answer 
too. What has become of him? Not 
once to-day, nor once yesterday, nor the 
day before yesterday, has she heard him 
speak, or seen him. Why does he not 
come now, almost flying, out of the 
house, as he used to do; as he did one 
week ago to-day? Why does he not 
bring his book and sit with her in the 
shade, while Nelly reads the pretty tale 
to him? Why does he not shout aloud 
for joy, as he did when be came the last 
time with the flowers which he had gath- 
.ered to make the wreaths for her head 
and for his ? 

Because he will never walk about the 
house any more. Because he never will 
come with the flowers as he came; be- 
cause Nelly can never more amuse him 
with reading for him any pretty tale. He 
has gone on- a journey, and he never will 


NED AND NELLY. 


147 


return. He has gone on a journey 
through the kingdom of the blessed, the 
land of rest. 

Of rest? But what labor has he ever 
done, and how has he ever been weary ? 
Who ever had swee^r slumbers than he, 
night after night, these eight years ? 
Who ever had finer dreams or better days 
than Hed? I think no boy that ever 
lived. Yet it is all true, just the same, 
that the land he is gone to is the pleasant 
land of rest. 

Sweet those slumbers of his, and those • 
dreams were, I know. But during the 
last week not so sweet, and not so sound. 

Often he was waking, burning with 
fever, and full of pain, and crying, and 
no one could help him; but how they 
tried to help ! One day, that was only 
four days ago, the pain left him, and he 
fell into a sweet, deep sleep. His face 
had a happy smile upon it, and he was 
talking all day about Helly, and about 
the swing, and of the trees he would 


148 


NED AND NELLY. 


climb, and about the flowers in tbeir 
garden ; the flowers whose seed they 
planted in the spring, and whose growth 
they had watched through all the sum- 
mer. And ISTelly, sitting beside him, 
close beside him, was smiling too ; she 
was so happy. For now IS’ed would be 
well, she thought, and soon, may be to- 
morrow, or the next day, they would be 
out again together, as they had been so 
many, many times. 

He would be well. Yes, and he was 
• well sooner than he thought! And in 
another way well. For, four days ago, 
on that same day when the pain left him, 
when he had once opened his eyes after 
the long deep sleep, he clasped Helly’s hand 
closer, very close, as he used to do when 
they were going to set out together on a 
chase. But he did not speak again after 
that. And when he had closed his eyes 
again Helly’s mother lay down close beside 
him on the bed, and for a moment there 
was a deep and solemn silence*; then, in 


NED AND NELLY. 


149 


another, moment, the little boj was in 
his mother’s arms, and she had risen 
from the bed, and was stooping down by 
the window, and her hand was pressed 
close against his breast, and she was 
crying : 

“ O my boy ! my boy I JSTeddy ! 
IN’eddy ! Speak, my child !” 

But there came no answer, and he did 
not feel the hot tears that fell so fast upon 
his face. 

Then there was a running through the 
house, and a flying for the doctor; and, 
from the dark corner of the room to 
which she had crept in her fright, ISTelly 
heard some one saying, with a sob, He 
is gone;” and she thought that must 
mean some awful thing, by the way that 
it was said. What it meant was this: 
the spirit of the little fellow, so precious 
to them all, had gone away to the other 
country, to the better country, to the 
heavenly, and he never would return. 
The sparrow had flown away. 


160 


NED AND NELLY. 


It was almost a week since that day, 
and now little IN'ed was no longer in the 
house. The dear face they could always 
see when they looked for it in their 
hearts, their hearts that loved him so 
well ; and^ the beautiful miniature of the 
beautiful boy, with golden ringlets and 
merry smile ; the miniature which always 
stood upon the mantel of his mother’s 
room, the room where he was born ; these 
two faces, and his little picture-books and 
toys, were all that was left of ISTed. 

It was early on the morning of the 
first Sabbath-day after Ned’s departure, 
that Nelly was wakened by the singing 
of the birds. When she looked out of 
her window to see whether it were late 
or early, for she had wakened suddenly 
and could not tell, she sa'w that the sun 
had not yet risen, and all out of doors 
Tvas so quiet and so beautiful that it was 
enough to make one hold his breath that 
stood looking and listening, and it made 
Nelly do just this. 


NED AND NELLY. 


151 


Presently, while she looked and list- 
ened, and saw how soft and fair the 
morning was, she remembered that it 
was the Sabbath-day ; then came the 
thought, 

One week ago to-day he was buried,” 
and looking down upon the gravel- walk, 
it was as though she saw the procession 
of friends and neighbors going out from 
the house with slow steps, to walk over 
to the graveyard where Ned was to be 
buried. And other thoughts came follow- 
ing fast, and now she turned away from 
the window and began to dress herself in 
haste, and when she had made herself 
ready she hurried from the room, just as 
you would have expected her to do had 
you watched her as she dressed, for it 
was very clear that there was some- 
thing on her mind that she meant to do 
next. 

In the hall she found her bonnet and 
cape, an(k then she went into the garden, 
Dut not to linger there, only to gather a 

Tho Sparrow’s FalL 1 0 


152 


NED AND NELLY. 


little bunch of flowers from the beds she 
and Ned had planted in the spring, and 
then she hurried.on. 

The sun had not risen jet ; there was 
no one astir. The street seemed to know 
it was Sunday, it was so still ; every one 
but Nelly was taking an extra nap. 

On with fleet steps she went, until she 
came to the end of .the street, and then a 
little way on, just across the park, and 
she was in the graveyard. 

Never was there a place more full of 
quiet than that ground when Nelly 
entered itl Some one had crossed the 
stile before her that morning, but she saw 
no print of footsteps on the grass, and no 
form moving about. She did not expect 
to meet any one there at that hour of the 
day, so she hurried on, and very well she 
knew the spot that she would go to, for 
not a day since the funeral had she neg- 
lected to come ; already there was a path 
worn through the grass by the feet of 
Nelly, and her father and mother. 


. NED AND NEfLLY. 


163 


Not until she had come close up to the 
little grave did she observe that there was 
another person there besides herself. 
Here, close by Ned’s grave, even sitting 
down upon the fresh green sod of that 
little mound. 

Who was this? What could this mean? 
Why should he be sitting there, holding 
in his hand those withered flowers which 
she brought yesterday? He did not see 
her, for his head was bent downward ; 
nor did she see him until she had come 
close up to the grave, and then at flrst it 
seemed as if she would go away; but 
while she stood there for a moment the 
stranger had seen her, and he understood 
the question she would like to ask, if she 
could only collect her thoughts. He saw 
the flowers she had in her hands ; he saw 
her mourning dress, and her sad face, and 
very well he knew what all this meant, 
for he had lived a long time in this world. 
He understood. 

He was a beautiful old man ; he had 


154 . NED AND NELLY. • 

long, glossy white hair, that curled a lit- 
tle, and a smooth face for one so old, and 
a heavenly expression was upon the face ; 
so kind, so peaceful was it, so full of love, 
and gentleness, and wisdom. 

When he savr the flowers which Kelly 
held in her hands, the bright, fresh flow- 
ers, he said with a smile, ^‘Ah, that is 
right ! these are beginning to fade. It 
was good of you to bring such beautiful 
blossoms here this blessed Sabbath-day. 
Did you bring these yesterday?” So 
softly he spoke, so tenderly, that Kelly 
answered at once, as though it had been 
her father who spoke : 

“Yes, sir, it was I that brought them.” 

“ From your own garden ?” 

“Yes, sir, from ours^ 

“ There are more of you, then ? You 
have brothers and sisters to help you in 
your garden ? Have you, dear ?” 

“Ko, I have none.” 

“Kone?” said the old man, and he 
seemed to pity her, if you might judge 


NED AND. NELLY. 155 

by his kindly voice when he spoke that 
word. 

“ I had. Edward’s garden and mine it 
was; but now I must take care of it 
alone.” 

“ Has Edward gone away, then ?” 

“ That is his grave.” 

Sit beside me here, my child ; come. 
I felt in my heart, when I sat down on 
this little new grave, that some dear child 
was sleeping below. And see ! I am an 
old man. When I came into this pleas- 
ant place, this ^as the spot I chose to 
rest in, this was the place I selected to 
think some blessed thoughts ; thoughts 
which I would always be thinking in this 
Sabbath of my life. For I said to myself, 
an old man may well choose for a resting- 
place the grave of a little child, both of 
us children of one heavenly Father.” 

While he was speaking these words 
Helly had Come closer to him, and now 
she was sitting .down, not on the grave, 
but in the grass at the old man’s feet; 


156 NED AND NELLY. 

and his voice soothed her as if it had 
been sweet music, and she did not shed a 
tear, though this was Ned’s grave, and 
here he was buried only a week ago ; and 
here, since then, she had wept so many 
times in her great sorrow. 

“ Tell me,” he said, when she had sat 
down, “tell me, dear, do you find any- 
thing to make you happy now when you 
think that he has gone ?” 

Wondering Nelly heard this question, 
wondering she looked at the old man who 
asked it, and she answered : 

“ How can I be happy ? No ; if I could 
go too I would be willing.” 

“ He was so precious to you,” said the 
stranger softly. 

“ Yes,” answered Nelly, and now she 
hid her face in her hands and wept ; but 
it was in silence, and without bitterness. 

The old man did not try to soothe her 
— for a long time he was silent — but at 
length h§ began to speak, and this is what 
he said ; 


NED AND NELLY. 


157 


“I once knew a little boy, and bis 
name, too, was Edward. He was a hap- 
py child. His father was a painter, and 
while he sat at his work, making pictures, 
like the beautiful world you see, which- 
ever way you look, copying the trees, and 
the sunshine, and the rivers, and oceans, 
the boy was always with him, and the 
hand of the painter worked faster, with 
Edward by his side, than it ever worked 
at any other time. And this was the 
reason ; it was because- the beautiful boy 
was his continual encouragement. The 
painter was a poor man ; sometimes, when 
he was young, he had gone without bread 
to eat, that he might buy the necessary 
materials for him to go on with his work, 
the work he loved so much. It was a 
long, long time before people knew any- 
thing about him, and a long time after 
that before they cared for anything that 
he could do. But the few that did take 
any notice seemed to like his work more 
^d more, and they said many things 


158 


NED AND NELLY. 


that cheered the heart of the poor paint- 
er, that encouraged him to go on, and 
made him hope for bright, good days in 
the future. Do you know, little girl, 
what a great matter a few kind words 
may be ? Often these good friends would 
come to the miserable room where the 
poor fellow’ worked, and they seemed to 
care about him more and more, and to 
talk about him and his work to other 
people, so that it came to pass, after a 
while, that the painter had work enough 
to do to answer all the calls that were 
made upon him. He must paint a pic- 
ture for this one and that one, and what- 
ever price he asked they were all willing 
to pay. So now he was sure of bread 
enough to eat, and sure of comfort for his 
• wife and their little boy, Edward. They 
sent him about the country, these good 
friends and patrons of his, about the beau- 
tiful country, to paint this mountain, or 
that valley, or the falls of a river, or a 
forest scene, so that it came to pass, at 


NED AND NELLY. 


159 


length, that he was no longer a^ poor 
man ; but, as I said, he had 5. great deal 
more than he needed, for we do not need 
so very much to supply all our wants if 
we are only as we should be. 

“ But the painter was not very wise. 
He had been so poor that a fear seemed 
to trouble him constantly lest the old for- 
tune should come back ; lest a like hard 
fortune should happen to his boy. So 
the more money he made the harder he 
worked, and I am afraid he began to al- 
low some very proud thoughts to find 
place in his mind. 

‘‘ But these proud thoughts were not 
about his own work so much. There was 
the little fellow that stood by his side, 
and watched him at his work so quietly 
and so happily, so long, never watching or 
earing for any other play or, sport ? Had 
not that boy the eyes and the face of a 
painter ? Could any one but a true lover 
of the art watch as Edward watched, 
while his father’s pictures grew, and the 


160 


NED AND NELLY. 


figures came out one by one, as he called 
them, from the canvas ? It was a pleas- 
ant siffht to the father when sometimes 

o 

the boy would sit with pencil and paper 
and make a copy of his father’s work — so 
well he loved it that he seemed to think 
of nothing besides, and people who saw 
the boy would say sometimes to the fa- 
ther, ‘ Look out for your honors ; there’s 
one coming after you who will do better.’ 
And the father would look at the boy 
with a smile, and it did not trouble him 
to think that there sat one who would do 
greater things than he had ever done. 
For he loved his art so well that he could 
thank God for all the beauty he saw in 
any other painter’s work ; for you know, 
dear child,” said the old man, softly strok- 
ing ^lelly’s hand, “ for all things that are 
beautiful God is to be thanked. But he 
remembered, this father remembered, the 
struggles he had passed through, and he 
could not think of them without a shud- 
der, nor without some tears, for others 


NED AND NELLY. 


161 


had suffered with him on account of his 
poverty. So he said that his son should 
never know any trial such as he had 
known, and this was what made him 
work so hard, never resting, never asking 
for rest, until he had succeeded in his 

% 

great design. 

‘‘Well, he laid up his money, he worked 
hard, he became a rich man for an artist ; 
and his son, his Edward, was now thirteen 
years old* A brave boy was he. Every 
one thought so. It was not his father 
alone. He had grown tall, and he had 
his mother’s face, and his mother in her 
youth was very beautiful; eyes so pure 
that anything impure feared to meet their 
glance, and a forehead white, and smooth, 
and lofty, over which fell the ringlets of 
her beautiful dark hair. Edward was 
like her in her looks and in her ways, 
and he had all his father’s love of art; 
and so had he studied, that now, only 
thirteen years of age, he could paint won- 
derfully ; and the father used to say to 


162 


NED AND NELLY. 


his son, to Edward, ^Yery soon I shall 
quit the field ; no one will want my works 
when you come with yours.’ I know that 
was the truth. At that same time there 
was a picture on his easel that was worth 
all his father had done, and more, much 
more, my child. But that picture never 
was finished. . . . Instead of anything done 
on earth by Edward there is only a grave, 
a little longer and a little larger than this 
grave, and a stone. I will shovi you what 
it is like.” 

The old man now drew from his pocket 
a little wallet, untied, unrolled it, and 
when he had spread it open on his knee 
he looked at hTelly, and he saw that tears 
were rolling from her eyes over her 
cheeks, and he said gently : 

“ Why do you weep ?” 

“O, it is so sad!” she answered in a 
sighing whisper, and she was not think- 
ing of her own grief now. 

“ Do not say so,” he replied, it is all 
well. Edward’s father never weeps at 


NED AND NELLY. 


163 


this.” And when he saw the wondering 
look of he knew that she could not 

understand his words, and he explained : 
“It is a little lonely for me, and I was 
like a tree with its main branch cut off ; 
hut this life, you know, is only the begin- 
ning ; Edward is growing wise in the 
new country ; he has 

“ ‘ Gone unto that school 
Where he no longer needs my poor protection — 
And Christ himself doth rule.’ 

“Why should I not be glad at that? 
He is safe now. When I die I shall not 
have to part with him, but I shall go to 
meet him ! God will take care of him. 
. . . This is what I wanted to show you.” 

“What is this?” asked Helly, taking 
the bit of paper, Covered with pencil- 
marks, which he gave her. 

“ This is Edward’s monument. This is 
his story. This head with the wings I 
made to mean an angel. He is an angel 
now. And these you see, underneath 
here, are the broken tools and the pencils 


164 


NED AND NELLY. 


he would have worked with if he had 
lived. . . . But what is he now? Do I 
ever think of him as lying in that grave, 
a boy only thirteen years old, his little 
hands mouldering, his eyes closed, his 
mouth speechless, his ears stopped? . . . 
]^o ! no ! He is in heaven ; he is in the 
‘better land.’ He is more beautiful, he 
is better, he is greater than he ever could 
have been here. Shall I not be glad ? 
Men would have given him great work 
to do on earth; but God has given, him 
still better. Who has a right to lament ? 
I do not mourn. . . . My Bather in heav- 
en^ thou knowest that I thank thee. . . . 
For a long while, my child, I could not 
bring myself to say this ; but now I say 
it — long have I said ^ • though I have 
no other Edward . . . though I am an old 
man, and have nothing in this world left 
me but my art. Why should I not re- 
joice? I never painted such pictures, 
such good pictures, when he was by my 
side, as I have painted since he went 


NED AND NELLY. 


165 


away, since he lives for me only in my 
thought. I love to think that it is the 
same since he went as if he had left open 
the door of the kingdom of heaven when 
he entered in; and, though I may not 
enter that till God shall be pleased to call 
me, yet a light streams through it, and 
falls around my way. . . . And so I think 
it may be with all those who remain upon 
this earth after their dearest ones go away 
out of sight, and leave them weeping and 
lonely. They must never forget those 
who are gone. They naust think of them 
brightly and happily, and then they will 
grow purer in their hearts, and better, 
and happier, and more fit to live on this 
dear, earth, which is so fair and so full of 
. God’s glory. And so it will be with you, 
dear child, if you will only remember that 
he who has gone away loves you still, and 
is living, though beyond your sight ; and 
you will try and grow wise and holy, and 
so you will be happy here, knowing that 
he is wise, and holy, and happy tjeeke. 


166 


NED AND NELLY. 


And you will wipe away your tears, be- 
cause you know that your Edward is 
where there is no sorrow. By and by 
you shall walk with him by the still wa- 
ters, through the green pastures, and the 
dear Saviour shall lead you.’’ 

Just as he spoke these words a church 
bell, that rung at an early morning hour, 
struck. At the sound JS^elly rose up, she 
had already wiped away her tears, and 
when the old man said, smiling, to her, 
“ This will be a holy day to us, thinking 
of the Edward that has gone away from 
each of us . . . and a blessed day, too, will 
it not ?” she smiled in his face, and, though 
she could not speak, he knew, when she 
went away, that already “ God had wiped 
away her tears.” And it was so. That 
she was “ comforted.” And so may God 
wipe away your tears, and comfort you, 
dear ones, who weep to-day. 



♦ 


LITTLE DICK WEAVER’S GREAT 
BONFIRE. 


Poor little Dick Weaver was no worse 
off in this world, I dare say, than count- 
less lads who run about the streets ready 
for any kind of mischief, having nowhere 
on earth a comfortable home. But one 
does not like to think that any little fel- 
low could be born to a poorer lot. 

Dick wasn’t the sort of boy that picks 
up good friends whichever way he turns. 
He seemed to take to the worst of all 
things naturally, and up to the time when 
he forgot to celebrate his tenth birthday, 
he had never known what it was to look 
into loving faces, and find smiles ready 
for him just when he wanted them, or 
speak to the body nearest good and tender 

The Sparrow’s Fall. 1 1 


168 DICK WEAW^^R’S GREAT BONFIRE. 

words, and be answered back witb true 
and gentle speech. 

Poor little Dick ! he never prayed to 
God, nor even knew he had a heavenly 
Father, yet how often the name of God 
was on his lips. • He never thought of 
our blessed Saviour as you may think of 
him, but Jesus Christ ” was the name 
you might have heard him speaking as 
likely as any other if you passed Dick in 
the street. That name had no meaning 
to him, though he was born an American 
citizen and not a Fiji Islander. It never 
brought before his mind a little child who 
walked in the 'streets of Nazareth and 
talked with other children, played with 
them under the trees, went errands for 
his mother, worked in the carpenter’s 
shop, learned how to use the tools with 
skill, and finished little jobs for men who 
praised and paid him — never thought of 
this holy Jesus as the Saviour of every 
soul that trusts in him, that prays to him, 
that goes to him in trouble, want, or joy, 


DICK WEAVER’S GREAT BONFIRE. 169 

the very friend of sinners who shall judge 
the world ; no, never thinking of him in 
this or any way. He “ was a wandering 
child,” and he had never been taught 
about this blessed Lord and Christ, and 
he called his name as if he had been Ben 
Williams, the street cleaner’s boy next 
door, wdien they went out on some idle 
errand, or quarreled in the street, or 
fought like silly dogs. 

If you had seen him in the street per- 
haps you would not have looked twice to 
see how this little bundle of dirt and rags 
held itself together. But you might have 
looked, and if you had you would not 
have felt like lingering on the sidewalk 
to hear what such a boy could say for 
himself, or how he would sport about, or 
what games he liked best. You would 
have thought it pleasanter, I hope, to run 
home to the clean and quiet street where 
well-dressed and well-behaved boys and 
girls live. Your mother would think it 
safer. She, I think, would tremble if she 


lYO DICK WEAVEK’S GEE AT BONFIKE. 

but saw that you looked twice at little 
Dick. So dangerous he seemed, as if he 
might do any evil, wicked thing that came 
into his head without stopping to ques- 
tion about it. 

Does God heed the Sparrow’s fall ? 

A little bird that might tumble out of 
its nest in the great wilderness, and never 
a creature know, does the mighty God 
who made the heavens, earth, and the 
great seas, and the rivers, and the nations 
that fill the earth, does he know that the 
wind shook the little one out of his nest, 
or that the dry twig snapped beneath it, 
and that the sparrow lies helpless in the 
grass ? He who sits upon the great 
white throne with angels and archangels, 
cherubim and seraphim, about him, does 
he see the little bird where it lies in the 
vast wilderness? 

Then shall not his eyes, so watchful, 
BO tender, see also on the sidewalk ragged 
urchins growing up without a single 
good infiuence to help them. And will 


DICK WEAVER'S GREAT BONFIRE. 171 

not he stretch out his helping hand, and 
himself rescue the lost, and bring the 
helpless wanderer to the safe fold of the 
gentle shepherd, where the wolves can 
never enter ? 

Well, you may say yes to that, and yet 
not think it likely that God, God himself, 
should be careful to remember poor little 
Dick Weaver, whom nobody remembered 
except evil-minded children and God- 
forgetting parents. 

You would think it must almost be a 
miracle that got him safe out of the streets 
into a sheltered, pleasant home, where he 
should be watched over by an angel. 

I want to tell you how just such a state of 
things did come to pass. 

It was the night before the Fourth of 
July, and the boys were all at work get- 
ting together material for a great bonfire ; 
but little Dick was not among them, for 
there had been a furious quarrel among 
the boys that afternoon, and they had all 
agreed that he should have nothing to do 


172 DICK WEAVER’S GREAT BONFIRE. 

toward getting together the barrels and 
boxes. And he agreed with himself that 
he wouldn’t help them, however much 
they might need him. 

But Dick had the worst of it, and he 
kneAv he had. The rumbling and tum- 
bling of boxes and barrels, and falling of 
boards that were being brought together 
from near and from far enraged him ; he 
couldn’t sit listening in sullen silence all 
the evening while the rest of the boys had 
their sport; he thought he heard Ben 
'Williarris^s voice even at this distance; how 
they laughed and shouted, and what a 
bonfire that was going to be. 

All at once, while he stood listening in 
the deserted street, a thought flashed 
through his brain. It was like a real 
flash of fire, and he clapped both hands 
before his eyes as though the light had 
blinded him. Then he thrust his hands 
into his pockets and looked up and 
around him, standing stock still. Any 
body who saw him then might well have 


DICK WEAVER’S GREAT BONFIRE. 1Y3 

taken fright, for it was an awful look to 
see on a young lad’s face, the black 
anger, and the wicked resolution, so 
plain to see on his. 

In another minute he was looking 
about for waste papers, and stuffing his 
pockets with them, and with a bundle of 
matches in his hand he ran up the street ; 
but it was away from the bonfire, farther 
and farther at every step. By and by he 
came to a house quite separate from the 
others, and who owned it he didn’t know ; 
he thought that no one did, for the place 
looked deserted. There he would have 
his bonfire ! 

So he laid the papers among the loose 
foundation-stones, and put a lighted match 
to them, and then went to the other side 
of the alley and sat down to watch what 
should happen. 

He had hardly sat there five minutes, 
which time he spent in dreaming over 
the fine flurry and excitement he should 
presently be in, when, in place of a bon- 


174 DICK WEAVER’S GREAT BONFIRE. 

fire to feed the people should have a real 
fire to put out. How the flames would 
roar along, and burst the doors, and 
climb the windows, and mount to the 
chimney-tops ; and how the old roof 
would tumble in with a great crash just 
as the fire-engine- came rattling up the 
street, and if Ben Williams, who was 
always foremost at fires, should happen 
to get a tumble, or a bruise, or be put out 
of the fire company for not being on hand 
to do his duty, none the worse, but all 
the better. 

Yes, and to-morrow the traces of his 
bonfire would look quite as black and 
big as those the boys were dancing about 
now like so many red Indians in the 
street below. 

He w^as thinking of these things when 
a hand fell on his shoulder, heavy, strong ; 
such a grasp as poor Dick had never felt 
before. Then he was walked across the 
alley, whether he would or no, his pleas- 
ure wasn’t asked, and planted just before 


DICK WEAVEK’S GEEAT BONFIRE. 175 

the house, in the broken corner of which 
glared a dull red light that showed the 
pains he had taken were not in vain; 
pretty soon and wouldn’t there be a kind- 
ling, a flame, and an uproar ! 

“ This is your work,” said a voice strong 
and strange. What was the tone of it? 
It did not sound like anger or wrath ; it 
was pity rather than wonder. Poor Dick 
looked up. He felt himself to be in the 
hands of some great and powerfu^being ; 
he thought it could not be a man; he 
wondered if it could be God, and if this 
were the day of judgment, of which he 
had somewhere heard something terrible. 
He tried to get away, to shrink out and 
creep out of the hands that were on him ; 
but he could no more do it than the but- 
terfly can get away from you if you are 
determined to hold it. 

“This is your work,” said the voice 
again; “what did you do it for?” The 
grasp was still upon him, but the 
speaker was already taking measures to 


176 DICK WEAVER’S GREAT BONFIRE. 

put out tlie fire. It was easy to accom- 
plish. 

With that voice in his ears, and that 
hand on his shoulder, what could poor 
Dick do? Before now it had seemed 
easy enough to get out of a scrape. The 
truth was no matter; a lie was as easy to 
speak, and often much easier, and usually 
his legs served him well ; he could run as 
fast as any other lad. But here he stood, 
and h^ could only answer that question 
by saying, “Yes, I did do it!’' 

What reply to that confession? what 
would happen next? Dick thought of 
one thing and another as likely, for he 
had time to think. The man who held 
him was not the least hurried; he had 
also time to think, for he meant to treat 
this case as a physician. And Dick 
looked up into the stranger’s face, for 
somehow he did not feel afraid ; he seemed 
to know that he had fallen into hands 
that had a friendly, though so firm a 
touch ; he did not want to get away from 


DICK WEAVER’S GREAT BONFIRE. 17Y 

him, but for the first time in his life he 
did want to get aw'-ay from himself, from 
his restless, sinning self. Out of the dark- 
ness of his own heart a spirit seemed to 
rise and beckon him on to nobler deeds 
than he had ever yet done, to pleasanter 
paths than he had ever yet walked in. 

“ You’ll C9me with me,” said this 
stranger, “and I’ll give you better work 
to do than you’ve had in your life; I’ll 
help you to make a man of yourself ; will 
that suit you ?” 

Dick held by the hand as if he would 
never let it go again. Such a voice he 
had never heard speaking to him before. 
Would he go with this man? Ay, to 
the ends of the earth ! What was he for- 
saking ? filth, and wretchedness, and sin. 
To what did he go forward? He went 
forward to a place that will not have a 
pleasant sound to you when I tell the 
name ; to the House of Correction ! But 
did not poor Dick need correcting? 
Food, instruction, work he found there ; 


178 DICK WEAVER’S GREAT BONFIRE. 


SO thougli you might think he had a fall, 
this hunted and desperate sparrow, it was 
a fall out of storm into peace ! out of dan- 
ger into safety! out of ignorance into 
knowledge! knowledge of comfort and 
of decency, of love and of religion. Ah ! 
that many another sparrow, fluttering 
through the gale, plumage ruffled, torn, 
nest lost, half famished, alone, afraid, 
might have such a fall from his own 
wicked will to the humihty of obedience. 


THE END. 




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